Let's do a little inventory here. I broke my arm once. Well, I didn't break my arm. My cousin, Jimmy, wrapped the chain from the swingset around my ankle and pushed me over. He broke my arm.
Pursuing manhood, I was lifting weights in my bedroom. As I strained to lift a hundred pounds over my head, my cousin George and I began to laugh. That's what we did. Still do. The right side of the barbell fell first. The doctor at the emergency room used a candy cane and a sledge hammer to describe the situation with my foot.
Resenting my bossy attitude, Hardy punched my lights out while loading in at a New Year's eve show in Birmingham. When the young intern argued that my nose wasn't broken, I advised him that it had previously pointed straight ahead, a direction that was now and evermore abandoned. After taking my money and waiting all night for x rays, the next shift doctor gave me the news- my nose was broken.
Other than that, it's my heart. Six hundred and thirty seven times. I should be more careful.