Once is a cautionary curiosity. Twice in a fortnight is a cringe-worthy trend. To wit: a co-worker was lowering a nail gun—one with a disabled safety—down to Jeff Luptak. The construction worker reached up. He hit the trigger, driving a nail three inches into his melon. Due to the lucky angle of the threepenny projectile and the skill of Luptak’s neurosurgeons, he’s recovering from the cranial intrusion. Speaking to startribune.com,┬áDr. Tariq Janjua said the nail lodged “‘in the middle of the brain’s two hemispheres, just grazing major artery vessels.’ Had the nail gone any direction either way, he added, Luptak’s story would have ended much differently.” How long before OSHA mandates and eight-hour training class and a five-day waiting period for a D51238K?


  1. OSHA does mandate training for power actuated nail guns. This was apparently an air actuated nail gun. It won’t be long, just as BB guns are “firearms” in most municipal jurisdictions.

  2. Another Darwin award nominee. Now he knows why the manufacturer installed a safety on the nail gun. Watch for the lawsuit anyway.

  3. Once upon a time… About 14 years back I found myself in a conversation with an RN in a bar in Sacramento, California. Nothing unusual about that, right? In the previous week at work, I had managed to shoot myself right square in the left hand with my trusty NR83 Hitachi (a nail gun), and she actually said: “Nailguns are dangerous, they need to be banned.” She was serious. I thought about what she said for a minute before realizing that no matter how hard you try, you just cannot fix stupid. Sure, she had an education and was living her life in a way best suited for her, but there was a limit to what she would be willing to expose herself to. Construction was clearly not on that list. By the time she discovered that I was riding a motorcycle that night, it became her pet project to save me from myself and my wretched ways. I slowly drank my orange juice as she schlepped down vodka gimlets until spittle followed each consonant and her speech devolved towards jibberish. She continued to espouse the dangers of my choices and berate my lack of common sense. Her drink sloshed about and overshot the rim of the tumbler as she waved her hand in the “Tut-tut” fashion we have become familiar with. The lovely lady described the tragedies of all mans inventions (automobiles, power tools, firearms) at length as she had seen the devastation first hand in the emergency room throughout her career. The booze only accelerated her passion as she began to rant about the terrible things that happen to us when we fail to (get this) “Live in harmony with our surroundings.” I had long since disengaged from active participation with the woman as I know what it is like to regret pandering for play in a bar. At the end of the night she was spitting her farewells at me as her drunken friends carried her and all of her concerns for my safety back out to her car and I soberly rode home alone, content that I would never have her ruling my life.
    Have you ever noticed that those most concerned for your “safety” are often the ones who risk it the most? Walking bags of meat filled with hot air are in no short supply on the “Blame the object” side of the spectrum.


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