From a guy I dated in High School:
Say you're out cuttin grass on your riding mower. You know what the difference is between a hornet and a small piece of a limb flying down your shirt and stopping just inside your ol belly button? Nothing. Not One. Damn. Thing. Between the roar of the mower, the sweat stinging your eyes, Bocephus blaring on your headphones and the anxiousness of the moment, there's no way to tell you ain't about to get your sphincter stung through your belly button. So you do the only logical thing you can think of. You dance. Nah, I don't mean like Fred and Ginger, I mean like one of those nasty girls at the club that'll do anything (except cut your stinkin grass) for $50 bucks. You spin around in your seat, throw your legs in the air and beat yourself like you stole something. You'd probably rip your shirt off if it wasn't tucked into your britches tighter than an elephant into an ant hill. In which case you'd try to Hulk Hogan the damn thing, only to find out you're wearing one of those reinforced crew neck tee shirts that your loving wife got ya and you can't cut them with a ginsu, much less rip it. Besides, at this point you're too weak from doing the butt-spin hokey pokey to even think about ripping a genuine 50/50 cotton blend. That's when you realize your sphincter is worried about getting stung so it's started it's own team and is beginning to loosen its suction to the mower seat so it can escape. Problem is you gotta go with it but you now have your ankles around your ears, both hands buried down the front of your shirt and have begun to spin in your mower seat like something resembling Dorthy Hamill crossed with a dreidel being played with by a drunk monkey. As your ass breaks suction it hits you… you can fly! But only for a second cuz you know…. Gravity. One of two things is gonna happen at this point. You'll either continue your Dorthy Hamill drunk monkey hooker spin and end up somewhere between the neighbors fence and the 7th layer of hell, or you'll get incredibly lucky and use your GI Joe Kung Fu grip and grab the wheel in time to save yourself from ending up in the yard. Run over by your own mower. Again. With the neighbors having to come pull it off you. Again. I'm proud to say that this time I got lucky and saved it. Other than dislocating both hips, leaving my finger nails in the steering wheel, stretching the haggard hell out of my best mowing shirt and being a little embarrassed by the sounds I may or may not have made, I'm none worse for the wear. But next time I'm gonna take my damn chances and pull that piece of stick out of my belly button AFTER I get off the freaking mower. Now where is my tequila mug?
Cowboy up, ol son! 
