• Just don’t expect to get invited to the next office party.
• He’s lucky he wasn’t put into orbit with that hit. He’d be the first brain-dead popsicle in space.
• You knock all sense out of him. And he was 2 seconds away from a unified field theory, what a blow to science.
• He wonders if rogue bandits ever get workman’s comp. He’s preoccupied with health-care options for 4.
• Last time I saw a thumping like that, it was when an elf chick complained to a dwarf chick about being too fat.
• Wamp, zow, kerplow, and other quasi-onomatopoetic words.
• What a thrashin to the upper abdomen, what a clobbering, what a trouncing, what a… lambasting… fustigation, okay, I’m reaching.
• You coldcock that hothead upside his dome. I think you knocked the hamster in his head right off its wheel.
• His head makes a nice hollow thumping sound.
• You have given new meaning to the word “bludgeon.” You have done this on his face, somewhere where his nose used to be.
• Absolutely beautiful. What you wouldn’t give for a slow-motion instant replay. He won’t be using complex sentences again.

• Very good. You’ve managed to also give him a paper cut.
• I think you might have pissed him off.
• He’s crossed out your name in his yearbook.
• You impale his forearm. He screams in pain, “Oooouch! That really hurt, you know?!”
• You perforate his weapon hand. He drops his weapon. But now his hand can be easily stored into a three-ring binder.
• You impale his lower leg. And his lower leg discovers that today is not a good day to be a lower leg.
• A strike to the gut. “Argh! My pancreas!” he shouts. Clutching his side, he loses his next attack.
• You’ve perforated his upper arm like it was paper. However, paper rarely bleeds like this.
• The shot lodges itself in his chest, blood starts splurting immediately. He is quite alarmed at this sight, and rightly so.
• Ouch, you’ve cut off his left ear. You have deprived him of ever again getting to enjoy Mozart in stereo. His favorite activity.
• With each end of the arrow sticking out of each side of his head, he has a comical appearance. Stunned for 2 at being alive.

• You zig, then zag, then scar his left hand. You write “2pac Lives” or “Jethro Tull”--one or the other, hard to tell.
• You strike his weapon hand. Take that, weapon hand!
• You’ve chopped off his off hand! He called that one Nancy. He misses Nancy. Now he can never learn the piano.
• His thoughts just two seconds ago: “okay, milk, eggs, yeooooowch! uh, eggs, eggs, ow, eggs…”
• You’ve mutilated his thigh. More grotesque than Goya, but still less disturbing than a Mariah Carrey movie.
• You carve a t-bone out of his thigh. Ever think of working at Benihanas? I bet he wishes he was there, right now.
• Way to mutilate! Gee I’d hate to have his fate. With no forearm, how can he master his broadsword?.
• You blaze a trail of crimson across his upper arm. Its beauty and pain absorb him for 3 rounds, when he should be attacking.
• You engrave a proper epithet onto his upper arm. “Yes, your mother is not only a hamster…” Loses 2 attacks reading.
• You put the smack down like a pimp. You slash across his face, twisting his head. He’s knocked prone. Who’s your daddy?
• You give him a gash full across the face, temple to jaw. Precision like this has only been seen in Tijuana operating rooms.
• Your weapon wielding finesse has gouged out his right eye. Luckily, he still has that patch from being a pirate at Halloween.
• You pop out his left eyeball, and fling it away. He stumbles around for it. “Don’t worry; we’ll both keep an eye out for it.”
• You cut down on his head as clean as the part in his hair. Well, clean except for the blood and skull bits.
• You cut so deep into that head, you’d think you were trying to see how old he was by counting his rings.
• Look at it this way, now he no longer has to go through life wondering what it’s like to get one’s eyes sliced like olives.
• I don’t think he felt it. But the red coming down his brow made him suspect it, and the liquid on his fingertips confirmed it.
• After this amazing hit the villagers wanted to call you Slash, but I guess Guns & Roses had it copyrighted.

• All right. Now there is absolutely no reason there should be a banana peel in the middle of a battleground.
• You fight like a girl. Maybe you should fight some girls. And if you are a girl… Well, do you still want to fight like one?
• Sudden Psychosomatic Transferred Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: “Mac, Charlie’s everywhere, where’s the f’in napalm?”
• You are invincible, you think. The blood on your leg, at least it’s not yours. Oh wait, it is yours.
• You lose your concentration. “Slash, slash, stab, yawn… stab, stab, whatever, yawn… slash, oops, my thigh, whatever, ow, yawn.”
• Worst fumble since Earnest Byner fumbled the ball at the goal line against Denver in 1987. But you knew that, didn’t you?
• You get a self-destructive impulse to strike yourself in the upper arm. You stop yourself a little too late this time.
• I bet you weren’t allowed around the big-kid scissors until well into 4th grade. How are you still alive and who gave you a weapon?
• This is beautiful, if only someone had a video camera, and Bob Saget was still around to make humorous commentary.
• You cut yourself in the face. You get a scar across your cheek. It’ll seem cool until the first person asks you how you got it.
• Extreme pain is rarely this comical. In fact, your hitting yourself in the head makes everyone in a 10’ radius laugh for 2 rounds.

• You get dust in your eyes, panic, and accidentally shoot straight up. You run around hoping the arrow won’t land on you.
• You’re intent on aiming, but a bee lands on your nose. “What are you doing?” “If you stay real still they don’t sting you.”
• You actually put the arrow in backwards. You then realize something is wrong, so you flip the bow, and nearly shoot yourself.
• Someone must have put that arrow into the quiver the wrong way, and that someone was probably you.
• Nice thigh shot. I think you hit an artery. Good job. Wait, sorry, scratch that. This is a fumble; you’re the one bleeding, moron.
• Tried to do a Matrix movement, now you need a M*A*S*H unit.
• The funny thing is, this time it isn’t your fault. Someone else is to blame. The sad thing is you’ll never know who.
• Is it really possible to do this much damage to yourself with your own weapon? The physics alone… It’s stunning.
• That’s the last time you go to work fizaded.
• Some decisions seem worse than others, like giving the Sudetenland to Hitler. This lies somewhere in that category.
• You almost get the shot off when your ammunition goes off in your hand. This leaves you stunned, as it has no explosive.
• Your conscience gets you. Is it right to take a life if the cause is just, you ponder, till the weapon goes off and hits you in the head.

• Shaka Zulu you are not. You threw fine, but you forgot to let go, good job.
• It’s all in the wrist, or in this case, your wrist. As you manage to pierce yourself in your off arm.
• Your weapon slips out of your hand like a greased pig. You look at your hand and are shaken for 2. “What is this goo?”
• You want to get a running start on your throw. So you hop, skip, trip, crash, fall… Inertia will get you sometimes.
• You nearly pole-vault on your weapon. You can see how this would be impossible, so instead you just knock yourself prone.
• Spazz out totally for no reason. Your body does a Kramer, and you fall. Who’s to blame, Mary Hart?
• You’re one of those whadayacallits… Masochists, that’s it. Or what’s the term for a person too stupid to not hurt themselves?
• This is what happens when you don’t follow the OSHA guidelines! If you weren’t union, I’d fire you.
• You try throwing over-head for more distance, good idea. You just missed the “over” part. Hit yourself in the head.
• You give new meaning to the term “throwing weapon.” As it stays where it is, but you go flying.
• This is beautiful, you stab yourself in your foot, and then fall over, and land on your own weapon. Get MVP from the enemy.
• I swear, your weapon seemed to have a personal vendetta against you. Then the guilt was too much, and it destroys itself.

• I don’t know how you could manage to hurt yourself without a weapon, but you did.
• No no no. You’re supposed to hit him, not yourself. Do you need to wear a special helmet and pads just to go outside?
• You strike a fearsome pose, tense all your muscles, and end up straining your back. You manage to hurt yourself standing still.
• It is one thing to hurt oneself. It is another when you are unarmed. And still another when you also manage to hit your groin.
• You trip over the immaterial, invisible ghost of a mythological dead tortoise. Forever after, haunted by dreams of zombie turtles.
• Ill humours bubble subterraneous. You got acid reflux. You shouldn’t have eaten that chili; it reminds you for a round.
• You look worse than a sack of malapropisms. Such a catachresis.
• Almost won the Darwin award on that one. Someone upstairs must not like you, or someone downstairs really does.
• “I saw this move, like, in a movie once, and like… I was like, I could do that.” No. Spend 1 round just trying to get out of it.
• You hit yourself in your chest. Perhaps to show strength. But you knock the wind out of yourself. Lose your attack for 2 rounds.
• Way to punch yourself in the face. Gives new meaning to “hand-eye coordination.” Something you will lack for 3 rounds.
• How on earth did you manage to cut yourself, unarmed, in battle? Go home and have your mommy give you a band-aid.
• I’ve seen good criticals and bad fumbles. But how you managed to get your head stuck between your legs--never seen that.
• Light on your feet, watch you work it. You’re hittin em deep, you got them hurtin. But you fall on your seat, was it worth it?
• You heroically take the blow for an imaginary, already-deceased turtle. It thanks you and promises to return the favor.