The Darwin Awards 4: Intelligent Design (8 page)

Robert, thirty-five, was eager to hang out with the nudists at the Palm Springs campground, in a part of Death Valley where temperatures reached 136 degrees Fahrenheit. The track was rough but passable until he was lured into the Saline Mud Flats by the deceptively dry appearance of its cracked surface, which radiated heat in the baking sun. Within a few feet, the wheels of his VW Microbus sunk deep into the muck hiding just beneath the crust.

Robert was miles from nowhere, surrounded by the bleached skulls of other animals that had become trapped in the mire. But he had plenty of provisions, so he waited for help to find him on the remote dirt track. After six days, he finally abandoned the microbus and began walking to a less deserted location where someone was more likely to pass.

Luck was with him! As he was shaking the last drop of water from his bottle, help arrived in the form of fourteen-year-old British lads from the League of Venturers, who were training in search-and-rescue techniques. “He was crying and completely hysterical. I don’t think he expected to last the day,” said the unit leader. They gave him a lift to the nearest ranger station, eighty miles away, where he kissed the ground in gratitude.

Robert had cheated death once, but that didn’t stop him from tempting fate again.

In nearby Bishop, he found someone to tow the microbus out of the mud flats. Alas, it had two flat tires and other mechanical problems, so he returned to Bishop for automotive supplies. He snagged another ride into Death Valley, this time with a couple who took an unfamiliar route from the north, and dropped him off at a washout in the road about fifteen miles from the Palm Springs campground.

His plan was to locate the campground and enlist help fixing his vehicle. He stashed his supplies and began walking. His body was found three days later, without a map, a GPS, or even water. Authorities estimated that he had walked along the road for ten miles before heading into the open desert, seeking water.

Reference:
Southampton Echo,
UK;
Daily Record,
Glasgow, UK; www.death-valley.us;
Daily Mirror;
KCBS

A twenty-five-year-old man, long accustomed to annoying neighbors by snowmobiling at high speeds through sleeping streets, finally received his comeuppance—and in the process, a Darwinian nomination—when he drove headfirst into a tree.

It is not only his reckless speeding through a nighttime residential area that makes him eligible; nor is it merely because he was driving an unregistered, uninsured snowmobile without a helmet while drunk. Although these spectacularly stupid ideas were ultimately responsible for his demise, there is yet another relevant aspect to report.

Brian was a fireman, a member of the same company dispatched to peel him off the tree, the same organization that preaches snowmobile safety, responds to other gruesome snowmobile accidents, and the very same company that posts an illuminated “helmet safety” notice seven hundred feet from his own home.

Clearly, while others have been as foolish as Brian in their choice of recreational activities, few have been so uniquely aware of the possible concussions and repercussions prior to making that choice!

Reference: Personal account, AP, buffalonews.com, cable6tv.com

 

R
EADER
C
OMMENTS
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“I don’t think a helmet would have helped the last smart cell in his brain escape this one.”

 

“The only way this could have been better is if he had contrived to hit the same pole that the ‘helmet safety’ sign was posted on….”

 

 

Late one night, twenty-six-year-old Joseph was blazing down a road in the Chain O’Lakes district on his Yamaha moped. When he saw flashing lights in his rear-view mirror, well…with the wind whistling in his ears, he apparently concluded that his moped could outrun a police cruiser. This hard-boiled Heck’s Angel revved his engine and roared off.

The speedometer needle flashed past ten, twenty, and then thirty miles per hour, and within a minute, it was in the red zone at a blinding forty. But no matter how fast Joseph went, he was unable to shake the pursuing police officer from his tail! If only he had a spare JATO!

The two-stroke engine was buzzing like a hummingbird from the strain of the chase. Perhaps he was thinking, “You’ll never take me alive, copper!” as he sped through the intersection. Whatever his last thoughts may have been, Joseph lost control of his would-be road rocket, crashed into a tree, and died instantly.

Reference:
Warsaw Times-Union,
wlzq.com, wndu.com

The purpose of a demolition derby is to smash into other cars. Crash, repair, repeat. As a result, in competition, derby cars become more fragile than the average car. So you would think that Scot, a derby car owner, would take this fact into account when he crawled under his car for repairs. Why take the time to put a car up on blocks? It would be faster and easier to use a handy Bobcat-type skid loader and just lift the car up from its bumper.

When the car was raised, Scot slid beneath. Then the bumper broke off. Help was immediately summoned, but it was too late. Scot had lost his final demolition derby.

Reference:
Detroit Lakes Tribune

Ever since middle school, friends say, Tyler, 20, wanted to do something different, something unique, something nobody else would ever try: jump from a moving car. “He thought he could jump, roll, and stand,” said a friend, “like you see in the movies.” Tyler came away from an early car-jump experiment alive, with an asphalt tattoo to commemorate the feat.

On Labor Day, he was planning another dramatic stunt, riding in the back seat of a Subaru Legacy. Although his friends tried to talk him out of it, the Subaru was cruising at forty miles per hour when Tyler decided that he could, he should, he would jump from the car.

His father explained, “I think this was the last big thing he wanted to do as an immature kid, before accepting he had to grow up.” But plans to mature were cut short by his instant death, as he hit the road one last time. Tyler’s final jump is commemorated with another asphalt tattoo, this one shaped like a Darwin Award.

Reference:
Rocky Mountain News

“Maybe I used too much paper.”

Eastern Europe is known for its harsh winters, and Dusan, fifty-two, had weathered his fair share of them in his town. But when temperatures dropped low enough to play havoc with outdoor machinery, Dusan was exasperated to find that his Opel Kadett had fallen victim to the cold, repeatedly refusing to start.

The engine must be frozen, he decided. He remembered times he himself had been freezing in those icy Croatian winters. There was nothing better than warming up before a toasty roaring fire. Yes! That was clearly the solution to his problem. A roaring fire would warm up the Opel’s engine.

Dusan fetched some old newspapers, stuffed them under the engine, and lit them. While waiting for the engine to warm up, he wandered off—a fortunate occurence, because his beloved car exploded in a fireball. The heartbroken man told reporters, “I couldn’t start the engine and realized it was frozen. Now my lovely car is destroyed.”

Luckily, Dusan has identified what went wrong.

“Maybe I used too much paper,” he said.

Reference: ananova.com

 

Before fuel preheaters were installed in diesel engines, it was common for fires to be lit under frozen engines to thaw out the fuel. Because diesel is a safer fuel, this is less problematic than lighting a fire in a petrol (gasoline) engine.

 

 

 

When a story is about a person who is still with us, the name is changed. In this case, I selected a Croatian name meaning, “God is my judge.”

 

 

Sometimes it pays to use a cheaper substitute, thought Shane, nineteen, as he replaced lost brake fluid with dishwashing liquid. He took the car out for a test drive and discovered that sometimes you get what you pay for.

He applied his foot to the brake pedal as the car began to slide around a slight bend, but for some reason, the brakes didn’t respond. The car spun completely around, clipped the curb, and slammed into a power pole.

His trouble was just beginning, though, because Shane had also saved money by not registering the car. There was really no point in registering the car, he thought, because his license had already been suspended. Shane was sentenced to two hundred twenty hours of community service for driving with a suspended license, dangerous driving, and stealing two orange traffic safety cones.

For what it’s worth, his license was suspended for another year.

Reference:
New Zealand Herald