Not a funny accident per se, but a funny aftermath.
I was taking my first motorcycle country ride after the Spring thaw in 1968, and there was lots of loose sand still on the road, spread by trucks for traction in the snow. I didn't see some on a curve, slid out and crashed.
Some cars came by and saw me flattened out. I was conscious, but just trying to deal with the pain, and inventorying what was injured and if I was able to get up safely. One car raced off for help before I could yell after for him not to bother, in the days before cell phones. The police arrived a bit later, and then an ambulance, the old-fashioned Cadillac kind like in the movie Ghostbusters
By now I was sitting on a fence rail, and jokingly asked the cop if I should lie back down on ground to make the ambulance crew feel better as they pulled up. The crew wanted to look at my bleeding knees, but I couldn't raise my jeans legs up over them.
A guy in the crowd, that had now formed with stopped cars, started yelling "Pull his pants down! Pull his pants down!"
WTF??? You go pull your own pants down in public, you old pervert. I bit my lip and yanked my pant legs up over my knees, ripping them more.
But the ambulance crew was able to dress them. Which they did after moving me to the sit in the police cruiser front passenger seat, trying to chase away these morbid gawkers, and give me some privacy. I never did use the ambulance.
They determined I just had scrapes, no need for hospital care. I checked my bike and assured them I could ride it home (lying). So they all began to leave. Until I saw this one guy lingering there, who had a motorcycle himself. A Harley-Davidson Sportster, a bike I lusted for, still do to this day.
He asked if I could really ride home. It was 25 miles away, on mostly back roads. I said I wasn't sure. The bike started (kick start only), but the foot shifter was all bent, and the handlebars were floppy. And I was aching like Hell. Still I'd give it a try, and he said he'd escort me home. Wow! Great guy!
So off we go, me leading. And as we'd come up to stop signs after a few miles I'd look for him, my mirrors broken, him not behind me. He'd finally pull up.
"You've gotta slow down! I can't keep up with you!" he'd complain again & again. WHAT??? Slow down? I'm just limping along, purposely going slow for YOU. And you've got the fastest bike in America at that time.
Taught me that straight line speed isn't the same as speed over a winding road. And that I was a much, much faster rider than I ever realized, on my little Italian bike.
I got home OK, and wanted him to come inside my parent's house. But he wouldn't, just took off, and I never saw him again. And then faced the problem of how to get inside the house myself, without my parents seeing I'd had yet ANOTHER motorcycle accident. And regrettably, my worst one was yet to come, that my poor Father was actually to witness.