Here, watch, I am going to blockquote myself (from yesterday's Feedbag):
So, one afternoon several months ago, I was browning some sausage in a hot pan for sausage and peppers, which I make damn near every week in the winter as part of a desperate season-long program designed to sustain my will to live. Because I was making quite a lot of the stuff, I'd been working in batches, which meant that my stupid glass cooktop surface had gotten awfully hot. Somehow, at a certain point, I managed to spill some liquefied pork fat onto the surface of the (again,extremely hot) burner; this fat instantly began to smoke alarmingly. Hoping to avoid a grease fire (mostly because a burning house would've interrupted my kids' naptime, and grumpy nap-deprived kids are worse than death), I quickly and stupidly grabbed a nearby rag and started to swipe the hot grease off of the cooktop.
This was a poor choice.
The instant the rag touched the (once again, screamingly apeshit-crazy hot) surface of the burner, its fibers melted and stuck. Because my hand was moving very fast at the time, the sudden stopping of the rag caused my hand to roll over, which caused the the middle, ring, and little fingers on my left hand to roll directly across the insane, nuclear-fusion-hot surface of the burner, searing themselves on three sides. There came an audible hissing sound from the cooking of my hand. I know I can be prone to hyperbolizing, but please do believe me when I say that this moment was the precise and literal moment of God's death and the unraveling of all matter in the universe for all time.
Let's have the stories of your own gory kitchen accidents below. Mandolin-sliced your fingertips off? Deep-fried the back of your head? Whirred your entire torso into a hirsute, brick-colored smoothie? Do share.
Go.