I carefully coasted to a stop on the side of the deserted road and took stock. My sunglasses were gone, never to be seen again. A not insubstantial gash tracked rakishly across my forehead, now most liberally adorned with splintered chunks of chitin and copious pureed pest. I wiped away the gore with an oily towel and puttered meekly back home.

I crept stealthily into the house and retired to the bathroom to attend my wounds. My dad inquired concerning my injuries over dinner, and I not untruthfully explained I had been struck by a grasshopper while out driving with the top down. All involved thought it comical.

The truth has remained suppressed to this very day, and now, my friends, I share it with you.