Once in third grade me and this Italian kid with an afro were messing around with a stapler and he stapled his hand. We started laughing because it was kind of weird and funny and then all of a sudden he screamed and cried like a third grader. Anyway, that was one of those cute tiny office staplers and the whole thing was a gas. Now, construction staple guns are bigger and powered by 120 pounds per square inch of compressed air and the staples are two inches long. Couple years ago I'm on a crew doing big huge additions outside of Boston. One morning I'm putting up red cedar shingles on a fancy garage with a staple gun, and I'm getting in that rythym, you know, where things just flow. Easy peasy Japaneasy -- I throw a shingle up, I staple it to the wall... I throw a shingle up, I staple it to the wall... I throw a shingle up and WHACK.-- I staple my hand to the wall. Right through the bone. How do you spell R-E-T-A-R-D-O. Apparently I was kneeling on the air hose and the gun stopped short. Nice one. In the emergency room the Doc says "what the hell is it with you construction guys, don't you pay attention?" and I say, "No."
I hear this story later from the guys: While I'm at the hospital, one of the other carpenters picks up the staple gun I was using and starts working where I left off. He puts a cedar shingle up on the wall and POW - hits it with the gun. But nothing happens. Must be jammed. He slides the chamber open and calls over the foreman to take a look. Turns out the gun's NOT jammed - it's empty. I shot myself with the last staple.