I had a minor accident last week that covered my face with tiny red welts.  I went to a wedding Saturday, a birthday Sunday, and it’s now mid-week--which means you can believe that I now have a ready arsenal of answers to the question “Jesus. What--what happened to your face?”

- You know how some people get together on weekends and participate in a real Fight Club? I do that, but my club doesn’t follow any rules. Which is why I’m allowed to discuss this with you.

- Oh, I suppose you got through the chicken pox when you were a kid, Mr. Born-with-the-Silver-Spoon?

- Well, I’ll tell you what it’s not.  It’s definitely not battered husband syndrome.  My friends say it is, but it’s all my fault.  I made her mad, and I deserved it.

- This happens to every male in my family around this age. I’d rather not discuss it.

The problem is, the actual answer to the question is just as ridiculous: hot oil spattered my face when I was frying some burgers.  Listen, I fry burgers all the time.  I’d be highly willing to have burgers for breakfast.  I know how to maintain the delicate balance of flame to oil in order to achieve maximum effect without personal injury.  So what happened?  I was just tooling along and suddenly my frying pan went all Poltergeist on me.

The thing is, it didn’t even hurt; it just stung a bit.  I laughed and had dinner and went to bed and woke up the next morning and looked in the mirror and the picture of Dorian Gray was staring back at me.

My co-worker (pictured below) said I should go buy some vitamin E cream in order to prevent scarring.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that the bruises might scar, and I was about to take her recommendation when I realized that: