Sure Beats A Shot In The Arm

, , , , , | Related | September 19, 2017

(My father lives in an Alzheimer’s care facility. My youngest sister, who is a nurse and his healthcare contact, gets called that he has fallen and the facility has had him transported to the nearest emergency department. When my sister arrives at the hospital, she’s told that although Dad doesn’t seem to be injured, they have taken x-rays, as he is almost completely nonverbal and the staff wants to be sure there are no injuries. Dad is an Army veteran and sustained several combat wounds during WWII. Battlefield surgery being what it was in 1945, he will go to his grave carrying a few bullet and shell fragments that are still lodged in his arms, legs and torso. My sister is sitting with Dad in the exam room when the duty physician walks in, holding the x-rays and looking puzzled.)

Doctor: “Can you tell me… has your father ever been shot?”

Sister: *matter-of-factly*  “Oh, yes. Lots of times.”

Unfiltered Story #93715

, , | Unfiltered | September 16, 2017

I, and two friends, went to visit a friend in the hospital. We knew his room number, but it didn’t correlate to the floor he was on, so we headed back down to reception to find that out.

When we got there, there were three people ahead of us. The first, I never consciously registered at all (I don’t even know if it was man or a woman). The other two were a couple that I subconsciously tagged as “trailer park trash.” My subconscious was very alert that day.

The first person finished up and walk out the door. Mr. Trailer Park Trash then proceeded to rip into the receptionist (who was in a security guard uniform) because they hadn’t been speaking English. (At least half the population of Orange County speaks Spanish, if not natively, very, very fluently, like most of southern California).

Now, at this point, I realized several things. First, this guy was showing off for his women (who didn’t look particularly impressed), probably in hopes of getting some later that night. Second, he was showing what a manly man he was in front of the strangers (who were less impressed than his wife). Third, he was taking out life’s frustrations on the receptionist because she’s not allowed to tell him off. And fourth, that I didn’t feel like standing there for the next 20 minutes while this loser acted like a child. So I offered my opinion:

Me: “I think the basic problem here is that you’re an a**hole.”

Him: “You think I’m an a**hole because I think they should speak English?”

Me: “Yes. That’s why I think you’re an a**hole.”

He proceeded to offer up every racist justification in the book, and in reply to each one, I said “And you’re an a**hole.” He had no idea how to respond to that.

(My two friends were thinking, “Oh, God, we’re going to get into a fist fight.” But I knew better. This guy was, as they say, all mouth and no pants. If I’d called him the racist he was, yeah, he’d have started throwing punches – I’m sure he’s suffered a lot in life for his racism, but he just had no idea how to react to being called an a**hole. Plus, there were three of us and one of him, and his wife looked like she’d hold him down for us.)

After about 30 seconds of being reminded just what part of the human anatomy he was, he got disgusted and left, with his wife looking like he wasn’t going to get any for many years to come.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but apparently the receptionist/security guard spent the entire time trying desperately not to laugh, and nearly succeeding. I sincerely hope she went home and told her family the story over dinner – in Spanish.

Successfully Needling Through

, , , , | Working | September 13, 2017

(I am having an arthroscopy on my knee. Instead of being put to sleep during the operation, they simply give me epidural anesthesia so that I’ll stay awake during the operation. A curtain is placed between my upper and lower body, so I can’t actually see what’s happening down there. I am extremely afraid of needles and point this out to the doctor. They give me a painkiller and put some pain-reducing gel on my hand before inserting the cannula.)

Doctor: “All right, now it’s time for the anesthesia.”

Me: “Please, doctor. I’m deathly afraid of needles.”

Doctor: “Not to worry; you are not the only one. We’ll just give you a dose of what we call ‘Who-Cares Medicine.'”

(They put something through the cannula. Ten minutes later:)

Doctor: “It’s time for your anesthesia now:”

Me: “But doctor, I’m still not feeling too comfortable with this.”

Doctor: “Well, another dose of ‘Who-Cares Medicine’ for you, then.”

(Another ten minutes later:)

Doctor: “We’d really like to inject you now.”

Me: “Go ahead!”

(A minute or so passes:)

Nurse: “Do you feel any pain?”

Me: “I don’t feel a thing. Will you inject already?”

Nurse: “Most of the sedative is already in there.”

Me: “What?” *laughs* “This was easier than I thought.”

Nurse: *shows me the gigantic needle* “It was, indeed. See? It was this big.”

Me: *giggling* “That’s gigantic! How on earth did I not feel that?!”

(The operation commences. They are digging through my knee, and I’m engaged in a deep discussion with one of the nurses.)

Nurse: “You like urban exploration then? Did you visit the old abattoir in town before it was demolished?”

Me: “Not after it was abandoned, no. But I did as a kid, as a family member of mine was working there.”

Nurse: “I actually heard about a book that takes place there.”

Me: “Really, what was it called?”

Nurse: “I can’t remember, but I’ll Google it for you. One minute.”

Me: “What? There’s Internet in here?”

Nurse: “Sure thing. Now, let me see…”

Me: “After finding the book, could you check another thing for me? I heard rumours that the coach of [Local Football Team] has been sacked. Could you check their website?”

Nurse: “Just one minute… It says here that the coach has resigned and his assistant has taken over.”

Me: *trying to actually sit up* “WHAT?”

Doctor: “And more ‘Who-Cares Medicine’ for the young man, please.”

(They inject yet more medicine, and after that I’m very, very erratic. The staff are trying to hold their laughter.)

Me: “Hey, who’s sitting on my leg?”

Nurse: “He wants to know who’s sitting on his leg.”

Doctor: “Ask him what he thinks.”

Me: “It must be you or that other guy.”

(The doctors then change the position of my leg so that I actually can see my toes from behind the curtain.)

Me: “Hey, whose foot is that?”

(They couldn’t hold their laughter anymore. I was asking stupid question after stupid question, and they were just laughing and laughing, and trying their best to answer. I must have been a horrible patient. But the operation was as successful as it could be in the end.)

This Is An Ugly That Surgery Can’t Fix

, , , , | Friendly | September 4, 2017

(I’m in a plastic surgery center, waiting to be called back. I’m flipping through a book, and the woman next to me keeps glancing at me.)

Woman: “Going for surgery, too?”

Me: “Hopefully.”

Woman: *nods to my chest* “Aren’t they big enough?”

Me: “That would be why I’m here: to make them smaller.”

Woman: “What does your husband think of that? He might not stay if you do that. Might leave you for a REAL woman. Maybe you should focus on that big tummy of yours first.”

Me: “My wife was actually the one to first suggest a reduction. So, are you here about that botched face-lift? Don’t worry; I’m sure they can fix it.”

(She stomped off, fuming. My wife returned from her coffee hunt and nearly spit it out with laughter when I told her.)

Chained Down By The Reaper

, , , | Working | August 29, 2017

(i have to go to the ER because I have cut my finger while sharpening a scythe. The doctor interviews me about how it happened, for the letter which I’ll have to give to my GP for following check-ups. However, we soon encounter some difficulties communicating, because German isn’t the doctor’s mother tongue.)

Doctor: “Wow, that cut was rather deep. How did it happen?”

Me: “I’ve cut myself sharpening a scythe.”

Doctor: “Sorry, with what?”

Me: “A scythe.”

Doctor: *look of confusion*

Me: “A scythe. You know… that thing the grim reaper carries around?”

Doctor: *disbelieving look* “Oh, okay. I think I know what you mean.”

(I got my stitches and drove home. When I arrived, I took a look at the letter the doctor wrote and broke out laughing. “The patient cut himself with a chainsaw.” I guess Eastern European reapers are sort of hardcore.)

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