I had been to that new restaurant, "The Clap", and I had tried the Infection Spectacular Seafood Platter. It is upon this dish that I blame the events that followed; nevertheless, it sure was tasty. Anyway, we were served at six, we were given the lip of madness at seven, and by eight, my head had swelled up so much I couldn't get it out of the toilet.
Using my remaining superpower ("slide everything as if it's on wheels") I managed to get the toilet closer to the phone. I called the emergency number and within seconds I felt the jaws of life clamping down on my nether regions. Conchita, the lovely paramedic, deftly removed my brain, which immediately eased the swelling. I was offered a banana to gum while they sewed my head back up.
Later, after I had photographed all the axe damage and had a good round of tiddly-winks with Conchita, she advised me to seek professional help. I asked if I could see her again, and she explained that she was taking lessons in French-kissing electric outlets from now until doomsday, and we made it a date for exactly one week after doomsday. I can hardly wait.
I left my brain under my pillow that night, and in the morning I found that the brain fairy had left me a breast pump. Puzzled, I placed it in the trophy case with all the others and went back to bed, wondering where I would be able to take Conchita if the universe had been gone for a week.