I gave blood the other day. Well, I didn’t really give it so much as someone jabbed a huge needle into my arm and took it, but who cares about the details anyway? Accountants, that’s who. And we all know how exciting counting money is all day, unless it’s your own money, in which case it’s totally cool. As long as I can watch.

All I can say about giving blood is that it certainly is an enlightening experience, which really just means that you’re dizzy for several hours after letting them suck you dry. Wait, that only happens in sweet vampire movies like “Blade” and “The Notebook,” which is actually not a vampire movie at all but a story about love — so guys, do not be fooled! You will cry harder than the time you got lost in a parking lot and refused to ask for directions, and most importantly, there is no rampant violence or bloodshed.

You get the picture, though — after they disconnect you from the space-age needle with tubes and valves hanging off it, you get a brief glimpse of the nice little bag bulging with your own blood. Then they usher you over to a table that’s filled with pizza and crackers and pretzels and cookies and chips from El Zarape, and also pizza. Did I mention there was pizza?

If I didn’t know any better (still being openly debated), I would almost be suspicious of the whole Hansel and Gretel parallel going on here. They take your blood then force you to sit down and eat food for a long time. Then they call your phone incessantly to come back and donate again at the next blood drive. Next thing you know, they’ll have you boiling in a pot of hot water and reciting nursery rhymes like … um, I don’t know … Simon from American Idol.

OK, so that didn’t make sense, but neither did most of my blood drive experience. Take the form that you are required to fill out, for example: It consists of 40 questions, 39 of them which should obviously be answered “No” if you actually want them to use your blood.

These questions consist of such gems as, “Have you recently stayed in prison for more than 72 hours?” or “Have you ever traveled to [insert any country in Africa, the entire continent of Antarctica, which is technically not a country (but come on, you know it secretly wishes it was one), Australia, because we don’t trust those upside-down people and several clearly made-up countries like Luxembourg, Latvia and Green Bay]?”

Other questions include “Have you ever used a needle, even once, to inject illegal drugs?” and my personal favorite, “Have you ever exchanged money with someone in order to have sex with them?”

While I realize that the Red Cross needs to cover all possible avenues, some combinations of these basic questions quickly became quite absurd, and I’m only exaggerating a little bit here: “Have you ever given money to have sex with someone from Antarctica who has injected themselves with illegal drugs while in prison, after traveling to Green Bay and snorting cocaine off a urinal after 1977?”

So maybe that’s off the wall, but what would I recommend instead?

If I was to remake the form, I’d cut it down to just two basic Yes/No statements: “I am a virgin” and “I am a successful DARE graduate (and therefore am too much of a wuss to shoot heroin).” Of course, I would answer yes to both of these questions, mostly because I have no shame in living a sad comic’s existence but also because my mom usually shows these columns to everyone who will listen to her (mainly my dad).

Speaking of awkward: While you’re lying on the uncomfortable metal chair, watching your entire life flash before your eyes, or in my case, crying over the four and a half years of my life in which I had a “bowl” (“skater”) haircut, a nurse will come over every two minutes and ask you in a monotone, disinterested voice, “Are you doing alright?”

Yes, of course, I’m doing perfectly fine! Despite the fact that there’s a giant hole in my arm and a needle stuck into my artery is pumping out the liquid that brings oxygen to parts of my body such as my LEFT HAND, which has by now lost all feeling and cannot even squeeze the little red rubber ball that they do not even let you keep, most likely so you do not try to “give blood, by yourself, at home.”

So in conclusion, Blade could kick any superhero’s hiney any day of the week. The Red Cross is not to be messed with. Giving blood is cool. And if you are in prison and happen to meet a man named Bubba, avoid him at all costs. Especially if he’s an accountant.

For all you ladies out there, Jim’s blood type is O negative, so if that piques your interest than he can be found at [email protected]. You know you want to.