Scott Hollifield: Have a nice fall, booty man

I walked across the street at the light and turned onto the sidewalk when my boots hit a slick spot, my weight shifted awkwardly, and I knew I was headed south.

During this unusually cold and wet winter, it was only a matter of time.

It happened right in front of the funeral home at the corner of Main and Fort streets. If I hit hard enough, the location would make it convenient for all involved.

"Pull him up the steps, through the double doors and to the front so we can get this thing over with."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Hollifield."

In the split second before my tailbone made contact with the concrete, I had these thoughts:

No. 1: I don't want to be an Internet sensation.

I feared someone nearby was pointing a camera phone in my direction or a video-surveillance setup was capturing my humiliating collision with the sidewalk. Since "man falls down" is always good for a laugh, it ends up on YouTube, the "Pants on the Ground" guy adds a catchy new track, and 1 million hits later I can no longer go to the grocery store.

"Booty on the ground, booty on the ground, looking like a fool with your booty on the ground."

"Hey, momma, look. It's the booty man! Fall down, booty man!"
No. 2: Where's my insurance card?

I knew it was not in my wallet. One more card, however thin, would have been welcome since my wallet and my pants were going to be my only cushion once the Eagle had landed. The card was probably where we pile I mean file important documents we often need and can never find.

I did not want to go to the emergency room without my card.
"Do you have insurance, sir?"

"Yes, I do."

"May I see your card?"

"I don't have it with me."

"OK, sir, if you'll have a seat with those other people who don't have cards, over there between the man with the fork sticking out of his neck and the woman foaming at the mouth, we'll see if we can work you in this week."

No. 3: Why did I mock black ice?

In my neck of the woods, which I assumed would soon require a cervical collar, black ice is the most feared wintry substance on the planet, or at least talked about as if it is.

"Watch out for that black ice."

"There's going to be black ice in the morning."

"Black ice is dangerously close to developing a nuclear weapon."

In the days leading up to my fall, I had heard so much about black ice that I was sick of it. If one more person mentioned black ice, I was going to ...

"Be careful," my wife said. "There's black ice out there."

"Ice is ice," I shot back. "Black ice isn't even black. It's transparent."

"Whatever."

"I'm not scared of black ice, woman. I'll dance on black ice drinking a white Russian and eating red velvet cake with Blue Bonnet on it 'til I get yellow fever from a brown recluse. What do you think about that?"

"Why don't you do it in front of the funeral home?"

OK, she didn't say that, but I did mock black ice and just before I bruised my ego, I regretted it immensely.

The time for thinking was over and the time for impact was upon me. I hit on my tailbone, and my ears rang, which is not how they are connected in the song.

I wasn't seriously injured, and I thought I glimpsed a disappointed face in the funeral home window.

So, be careful out there, folks. Avoid becoming an Internet sensation, carry your insurance card and, by all means, avoid that ... no, I just can't say it.

Scott Hollifield is editor/general manager of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C. and a columnist for the Media General News Service. Contact him at P.O. Box 610, Marion, N.C. 28752 or e-mail rhollifield@mcdowellnews.com.