The setting is usually the same.
You're around some friends and even more strangers. You're about to do something awesome. You're playing it out in your head; images of people whispering back and forth, talking about how awesome it was, that awesome thing you did. People are clapping, cheering. Women are throwing their undergarments at you.
The words are usually the same.
The precursor to your shattered ego. The prelude to laughter in unison. Laughter at your expense because that awesome thing you were going to do turned out to be one huge, gigantic, poorly-judged assessment of just how little awesome you possess.
Some time ago, I was walking through the dining room of the restaurant at which I worked at sort of a fast pace. As I was doing this, I'd quickly realized there was a chair in the middle of the room that I was dangerously close to barreling over. Instead of doing the rational thing and, I don't know, changing the direction in which I was walking or moving the chair and continuing my journey unharmed, I thought it'd be a good idea to just do a quick hop over the seat. The chair is short. I am tall. I thought I could make it. And it was going to be so quick and awesome, you guys.
In front of coworkers and about 20 strangers, my foot clips the seat of the chair while I'm in mid-flight. A half-second later, I was pretzled on the floor with said chair; all eyes on me for the longest, least awesome half-second of my life.