Stan was on a mission to build a birdhouse. Simple enough. But, because this is Stan, “simple” was about to turn into an adventure. You see, Stan had read on some sketchy woodworking forum that the safety guard on a table saw was “for amateurs” and “only slowed you down.” Now, if you know anything about Stan, you know that “slowing down” is his kryptonite. The guard had to go.
So, off came the guard, because, you know, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Cue the ominous music.
At first, everything went smoothly. Wood was being cut. Stan was feeling like Bob Vila on steroids. He was in the zone, cruising toward a birdhouse so fancy the birds would leave Yelp reviews. Then, in classic Stan fashion, he decided to get a little creative with the cuts—wanted to add some "flair."
Now, I wasn’t there, but the way Stan tells it, it was like slow motion. One second, he’s guiding the wood through the saw, and the next, the saw decides it’s hungry for something besides timber. It grabbed the wood funny, pulled it in, and before Stan could even think, "Uh oh," his finger took a detour into the danger zone.
Zip! Zap! Wham! One second, Stan had ten fingers. The next? Well, he had nine. And let me tell you, he found out real quick that a missing finger isn’t as fun as it sounds.
Stan didn’t scream. Nope. He just stared at his hand, dumbfounded, like his own body had pulled a fast one on him. Meanwhile, the finger was somewhere across the garage, probably trying to hitch a ride out of there before Stan got any more “bright” ideas.
His wife, Brenda, hearing the commotion, rushed in, saw Stan standing there, finger-less and bewildered, and said, “I told you that guard was there for a reason.”
Stan didn’t appreciate the commentary in that moment. But you know who did? Everyone else. And we haven’t let him forget it since.
So now, Stan’s known in our friend group as “Nine-Finger Stan.” He’s got a pretty solid collection of gloves that don’t fit quite right, and whenever he waves, it’s more of a suggestive hand gesture than a full greeting. His birdhouse? It turned out great, by the way, though the birds are still wondering why it looks like it was designed by a guy with a vendetta against straight lines.
The lesson? Well, folks, if you take one thing away from Stan’s unfortunate brush with the Table Saw of Doom, let it be this: Don’t be an idiot.
So, off came the guard, because, you know, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Cue the ominous music.
At first, everything went smoothly. Wood was being cut. Stan was feeling like Bob Vila on steroids. He was in the zone, cruising toward a birdhouse so fancy the birds would leave Yelp reviews. Then, in classic Stan fashion, he decided to get a little creative with the cuts—wanted to add some "flair."
Now, I wasn’t there, but the way Stan tells it, it was like slow motion. One second, he’s guiding the wood through the saw, and the next, the saw decides it’s hungry for something besides timber. It grabbed the wood funny, pulled it in, and before Stan could even think, "Uh oh," his finger took a detour into the danger zone.
Zip! Zap! Wham! One second, Stan had ten fingers. The next? Well, he had nine. And let me tell you, he found out real quick that a missing finger isn’t as fun as it sounds.
Stan didn’t scream. Nope. He just stared at his hand, dumbfounded, like his own body had pulled a fast one on him. Meanwhile, the finger was somewhere across the garage, probably trying to hitch a ride out of there before Stan got any more “bright” ideas.
His wife, Brenda, hearing the commotion, rushed in, saw Stan standing there, finger-less and bewildered, and said, “I told you that guard was there for a reason.”
Stan didn’t appreciate the commentary in that moment. But you know who did? Everyone else. And we haven’t let him forget it since.
So now, Stan’s known in our friend group as “Nine-Finger Stan.” He’s got a pretty solid collection of gloves that don’t fit quite right, and whenever he waves, it’s more of a suggestive hand gesture than a full greeting. His birdhouse? It turned out great, by the way, though the birds are still wondering why it looks like it was designed by a guy with a vendetta against straight lines.
The lesson? Well, folks, if you take one thing away from Stan’s unfortunate brush with the Table Saw of Doom, let it be this: Don’t be an idiot.
Safety guards are not there for decoration. They’re not trying to ruin your woodworking masterpiece. They’re there to keep your body parts where they belong—attached to your body. And if you ever catch yourself thinking, “I don’t need this guard, I know what I’m doing,” just remember Stan.
Because while a lot of things grow back… fingers don’t.
Stay safe, folks. And if you’re not going to use the guard, at least make sure your health insurance is paid up.
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