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Cool Scar Story Bro

by Bryan Powell 2 years ago in humor
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An embarrassing failure at a right-of-passage story telling...

The charcoals from the grill are still glowing white and orange, the whiskey is flowing and the cigarette smoke is permeating through the midnight air; then, the scar stories begin to surface…

Let it be known, that I don’t have any manly stories, no “bar fight” stories, no war stories, nothing that would validate me having a Man Card; if anything, I have an old playing deck with faded Lisa Frank dolphins on the backs. I’ve never been in a bar fight because I’m the guy who avoids confrontation at all costs, the closest I got was when I was walking around a Mama Margi’s Mexican Restaurant drunk at 3 in the morning going up to strangers making ‘funny faces’ and a guy slapped the sunglasses off of my face (which was probably the right move, since it was 3:00 in the morning and no one should be wearing sunglasses at such a time or place). I don’t think I’ve ever done anything manly in my entire life, so when the scar stories started to come out, needless to say, I started to sweat.

“I rode my dirt bike into a barbed wire fence, and I got “clothes-lined” by the razor sharp metal, causing me to back-flip onto the rough dirt, *he laughs*, good thing I didn’t go at it from another angle or it would have taken my head off!” everyone ooh’s and ah’s as he lifts his head to reveal his gnarly neck scar…

Another man tells of his IED explosion story and shows his mangled, scarred leg, …at this point the circle starts seeming smaller and smaller, as the stories keep coming out, and I know I’m expected to tell a real juicy tale…

The time is now, the sweat is thick, and the crowd faces towards me, as they have all exhausted their awesome scar stories, and notice a few scars of my own… “so how about it?” asks one man, his whiskey/cigarette voice, deeper than a submarine, booming at me, “what are your ‘war’ stories?” he jokingly asks; everyone looks on in eager anticipation.

“Oh, you don’t wanna hear them, I assure you, they’re quite boring…” I am interrupted “OH COME’ON!” two of their booming voices say in unison, with others echoing after… “alright, alright” I say, trying my hardest for my voice not to crack. “so this one (I point to the scar tissue near my elbow), is from when I was at my friend’s house, and I decided to go down the water slide with NO running water!”

Complete silence.

The crickets begin to gather their instruments.

I show them the matching scar on the other elbow as if that will make it any better…

Still the crickets begin playing their symphony. “okay, okay, this one’s good” I say, knowing full well it’s worse than the former. “So I got this one”, pointing to a small scar on my knuckle, “this one I got from a CRAZY game of quarters!” They all lean in and seem excited. “were you super drunk?” one of the lotharios asks of me, “no, not that kind of quarters”, I replied “it was this game in middle school, where you took turns throwing quarters at each other’s knuckles to see who bleeds fir…” I stop myself and my voice dies down. At this moment, a few side conversations slowly begin and I sink to my lowest point of the evening.

Trying to win them back, I shouldn’t, but I did, I tried, and I went right on for it: “OH! This one is real great!”

Everyone stops talking and turns their attention back to me, divided attention, guardedly optimistic attention, but attention none the less… “This one here”, I pointed to the burn mark on my arm, “this one was from when my buddy from the ARMY…” they all lean in closer, expecting a story of patriotism or heroism, a story of MAN CARD REDEMPTION, “this is from when my friend Derek who was leaving for the ARMY put out a cigarette on my arm in the same spot my mother did to signify we were family!”

The cricket symphony roared on!

A final attempt, which at this point, seemed almost worth the last-ditch effort, came spewing out of my mouth, almost uncontrollably: “you guys, lemme tell you about this one here!” expecting heads to turn. They did. In the other direction. “I got this from a fight I got into with my oven… over some chicken nuggets!”

The crickets played their final number.


About the author

Bryan Powell

Hello! I am a comedian, short film & sketch maker, writer, artist, movie fanatic and rambler... I'll stop there.

You can check out some of my work at or follow me on any social media platform at @TheBryanPowell

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