Friday, July 17, 2009

- Fucktard Comment Round-Up

Analyst: Well, hey there folks, and welcome to another edition of Fucktard Comment Round-Up, the show where we take idiotic blogger comments and dissect them into easy to mock pieces for your viewing pleasure! I'm Roy Desoto, and this is my partner Johnny Gage. Looks like we have a pretty good match, Johnny.

Color Announcer: That’s right Roy, and boy do we have a humdinger of a fucktard today. Stepping into the spotlight is gjerry3. Although an obvious rookie with a join date of July 2009 he’s already come to our attention with some vicious attacks on perennial Duster Wrangler and hometown favorite AD, the paramedic behind “A Day in the Life of an Ambulance Driver”. The setup is basically that ole AD here brought his motorcycle to the shop “Cycles and More” and called several weeks later to find out not only had they not made the simple repairs to his motorcycle, they hadn’t even looked at it yet. As always we encourage our readers to review the original post and familiarize themselves with the history in order to more fully enjoy our…analysis. Please scroll down the comment section in the original post to review Gjerry's pitiful and amatuer attempt at flame in it's original setting.

Analyst: Here’s how to rules work. Spelling, grammar, and content of the offending post are left intact to illustrate the incompetence of the comment poster. I tell you, Johnny, it’s enough to make me want to don a Level 4 containment suit, because I’m embarrassed to even breathe the same air as the individual we are mocking today.

Color Announcer: And from the looks of it gjerry3 is lucky that breathing is an automatic bodily function, because if he had to do it on his own….yikes. Anyway, let’s get started.

I notice you took my comments off I guess the truth makes you run. Now for all your readers lets tell them the truth.

Color Announcer: Oof, not off to an auspicious start. Too bad they can’t lock someone up for raping the English language. I surprised he didn't spell "truth" with an "f".

Analyst: It would later be revealed that the comments were never deleted. Fuckface McGee was on a different entry and didn’t even realize it.

U live in the Oakdale are nobody in that area would work on your bike.

Analyst: What the hell?

Color Announcer: “ U live in the Oakdale are nobody”? That…that’s not even coherent. The whole sentence is one giant grammatical abortion. It’s like something someone on a 40-year drunk says whenever you’re putting him on a spine board. What is this guy’s problem? Is he just pounding his fists down on random sets of letters? I’ve seen cats walking across a keyboard that string together more cohesive thoughts then this moron.

Because they know you’re a douche bag.

Color Announcer: Ah yes. The thing you see every morning when you wake up, sir.

Then you found cycles and more they tried to help in every way possible your u cant be pleased.

Color Announcer: Tried to help in every possible? When? What document are you reading, gjerry3? I think you’ve gotten AD’s complaint letter with a self-help book of some sort.

Analyst: Perhaps, Johnny, he’s referring to a Cycles and More in some sort of BIZZARO alternate dimension, where up is down, black is white, and his man-package is actually capable of satisfying his seemingly endless parade of toothless, meth-addicted lovers.

So now u feel the need to blast them. And another thing if you’re going to post the prices at least put the correct ones on.

Color Announcer Well, we’re going to have to deduct some points here. If you’re going to drop flames on a blog entry, gjerry3, make sure you have the correct entry.

Analyst: A rookie mistake for gjerry3. I tell you, it’s been going dismally so far and this is going to hurt his chances to place in the final.

All u have left is Lafayette power sports good luck. You’ve burned your bridge in more ways than one stupid

Analyst: Just like the day you walked out of 3rd grade English in elementary school, eh, Gjerry? It would appear that you never met a piece of punctuation that tickled "you're" fancy long enough to use it more than twice in a paragraph. Does the part of your brain necessary for tact, reasoning, and intelligence even receive circulation? I submit that it does not. Johnny?

Color Announcer: I’m scared, Roy! I’m trapped in a black hole of stupidity and I’m about to cross the event horizon!

Analyst: Don’t try to touch the singularity, Johnny; it makes your fingers tingle. From my partner Johnny and all of us here at Fucktard Comment Round-Up, we bid you good night, and good luck!

(H/T To AD for the original concept.)

-MM

Thursday, July 9, 2009

- MedicMarch and the Volcano

Ms Boudreaux and I are on the same feeding schedule. I know this because I'm waiting expectantly in front of the microwave in the station. My small, hopeful face bathed in yellowish microwave light, nose up against the window, slave to the countdown timer, staring at my meal rotating in a tantalizing slow pirouette of deliciousness, and there's only 30 seconds left, and-

BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

This is the not the happy mealtime chime you would expect to hear when your food is ready in the microwave.

This is the annoying insistent ear-needle that emits from my pager whenever dispatch gambles I will be too weak from hunger to actually kill the sperm-waste mouth-breather that has interrupted my mealtime and requested an ambulance, full code, to go and pick up a lady who has removed her own PEG tube.


You see, Ms. Boudreaux doesn't like to keep her PEG tube in. Invariably, after a period of, oh, 20 minutes, she realizes there's some sort of tube sticking out of her belly, and proceeds to start picking at it, until she worms it out. Then it lays on top of her, or on the floor, or wherever it happens to land, and then whenever the LPN or PCA or whoever goes to feed her at the next meal time, they find it and call us. We pick her up.

She suffers the bumps of an 18 mile ambulance ride, and I do mean suffers - even the slightest rock of the module makes her scream in terror, and the road between Major Metro Hospital and here is quite potholed. She gets her PEG reinserted, and than takes another 18 mile ride back, before being placed back in her bed...so she can start picking at her PEG again.

I know Ms. Boudreaux's paperwork by heart now. I should, after all. This is the 5th time one of me or my coworkers has picked her up this week....and the 3rd time I've picked her up in a 72 hour period. As a matter fact, I can carbon my run report from the shift before, except for the vitals. When we returned the last time, I asked the nurse to put something on the patent's chart - get an order for restraints, or tape a large dressing over the PEG so she can't get to it, or something. Izzy sees the name at the top of the chart and then looks at me and rolls her eyes.

I walk into the room, check on her as Izzy gets vitals, and step back out. I have to talk to someone. The ADON and the shift RN are all standing behind the Formica, intently staring into paperwork.

"Excuse me, ladies."

No one looks up. They are silent as church mouse.

"Excuse me, ladies," I try again.

The RN looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and then over to the ADON, who is still ignoring me.

After I don't go away, she looks up with a smile. "Yes, may I help you?"

Some thing's not right here, but I can't figure out what it is. The staff is at least looking like they're trying. The hall smells only faintly of decubiti and turds. The charts are stacked neatly. What the shit is going on?

" I just wanted to talk to you about Ms Boudreaux. She pulled her PEG tube out again."

The ADON looks up, and she looks PISSED. What have I stumbled onto here?

"The tube is out, which is why we called YOU! You NEED to take her to the hospital so she can get it PUT BACK IN."

"Did you guys try calling her doctor to get something to cover, like I suggested? Or maybe some restraints?" I ask back.

"No, but her doctor did say to TAKE her to the hospital so she can get her TUBE PUT BACK IN."

I don't know if it my blood sugar, or not. I don't know if it's the fact that Ms Boudreaux's room is DIRECTLY across from the nurses station and she should be the easiest to supervise. That I already tried to help by getting a doctor's order to cover that PEG. What I meant to say next was "This is ridiculous." But at some point between the signal from my brain going to my mouth it gets mixed up and instead it comes out

"THIS IS FUCKING RETARDED."

Whoops.

Izzy, the two nurses, and a PCA that was walking by all have eyes the size of dinner plates. It is very quiet.

Well, screw it. At least I've got her attention.

"I AM TAKING HER. I'M JUST TRYING TO SAVE ME, YOU, AND THE OTHER TAXPAYERS SOME MONEY. I'M TRYING TO MAKE THINGS EASIER ON THE PATIENT AND THE ER THAT HAS TO PUT THE TUBE BACK IN. I ASKED YOU NICELY LAST TIME I WAS HERE TO CONTACT HER DOCTOR ABOUT GETTING A PAD OR REST-" The ADON cuts me off, finally regaining her composure.

"For your INFORMATION Medicaid says we can't restrain patients. If you don't like it, they down the hall. Go ask them yourself."

That explains the cleanliness...Medicaid must be doing one of their inspections. She said this to try and intimidate me. It backfires. The ADON recoils as I get a gleam in my eye and a giant, manic grin spreads on my face.

"Down the hall? Oh, good. Which hall? I've got some stuff to tell them about the things I've seen here." I take off down a random hall at a fast walk.

Izzy would later tell me that right after I walked off, the ADON looked at her with the biggest "Oh shit!" expression that she's ever seen. Izzy just shrugged back, and after that, the ADON comes scurrying out from behind the desk.

"Sir! Sir! Sir!" she's screaming as she runs down the hall, adrift in my wake as a I storm down the hall. To be truthful, I'm bluffing, and can't think of anything immediately off the top of my head, but if I gave it five minutes I'm sure I can come up with something.

Just as I'm about to round the corner, she grabs my arm. I've never seen a 400 pound lady move that quickly except when there is a buffet involved. She's breathing heavily after her little 30 yard sprint.

"There's no need (huff, huff) for that (puff,puff). We don't (::minor pig grunt::) want anyone (::wheeze::) causing trouble (::fart::) (::wheeze::)."

There is steel in my voice but I'm no longer yelling. "Look, I'm taking her in. But you need to call her doctor and get some orders written so that she doesn't have to keep getting bounced around. She's terrified of it. It's fine if you can't restrain her - I don't know all those rules. All she really needs is a large trauma dressing taped over the site inbetween meal times, or something like that."

I walk off and load Ms Boudreaux up in my unit. I spent the rest of the shift waiting for a phone call from a supervisor that never came.

I've got mixed feelings. It was extremely unprofessional of me to talk to anyone, much less an ADON, with that kind of language. But I'll be god-damned if the next time we stopped into pick Ms Boudreaux up, it was for abnormal labs. And she had on a soft, vest-type apparatus over her abdomen, keeping her from picking at the PEG.



I won't say it justifies my actions or behavior....but at least this particular issue got fixed.

-MM

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

- Range Report

This will be a departure from my standard EMS fare.

Few of you, if any, know of my interest with firearms. My mother, raising me as a single parent, was decidedly protective of me (suggesting to my grandmother, at one point when I began walking, that I wear a helmet to prevent head injuries) and anti-firearm - when I was young she kept me away from firearm toys, nearly going nuts when my grandmother bought me a toy raygun water pistol at a young age. My obsession with toy guns and GI Joe, however, eventually forced her to cave, results being that I had quite a collection by the time I got to be too old to play with toy guns. When most other young tykes were reading Clifford, The Big Friendly Dog books, I had my nose buried inside a military issue manual on Jungle Warfare.

My uncle and grandfather had both served as Marines, and my (necessarily absent...but this is a post for another day) father was a police officer. In fact, until I graduated I had just assumed I would join the military or serve as a law enforcement officer. I was actually in the city police department's Explorer program before getting into a similar program in EMS. Part of the program involved a week long camp at a military base in Gulfport...where one of the segments was at a firing range. I will never forget exiting the class room and loading and firing a police issue .38 at a target. My shooting was horrendous but the excitement remained with me all day. My mother wasn't much of a hunter, though, and other than a few trips with my godfather, another police officer, I never fired anything larger than a BB Gun....but it was enough to fuel my desire.


Since that time my knowledge of firearms has been mostly from books and the Internet.

I finally decided that now, as an adult of 24 years of age, I would venture forth into the world of firearms and test my mettle.

Which why, about a month ago, I found myself in the 6th lane of a local shop and shooting range near my hometown. I had requested and received a safety briefing and course in range protocol (because if I had a misfire, I didn't know what the hell to do), and had a rented Glock 22 in .40 and two boxes of shining, factory fresh rounds laid out in front of me. I'm happy to say that my book knowledge served me well and I was able to load my own magazines and operate the pistol without further assistance. I slid my safety glasses down, advanced my paper target down the range, and it began.

I'm pretty comfortable in my own skin, and I wouldn't say firing a pistol made me masculine or powerful. But I definitely derived immense satisfaction from the flash and noise, the recoil of the grip, the satisfying snick as I slid the magazine and chambered a round.

My shooting was atrocious, and I could not get my hands to stop shaking the whole time. I fired a box to get used to the weapon, and my friend Courtney, who had accompanied me, and I had a little competition after, firing in the following sets at 15 yards.

Center mass, 5 rounds, x2.
Head, 5 rounds.
Torso, 5 rounds in under 4 seconds.

Below is the target I fired at. The grin on my face is unmistakable.

Lord help me, I think I'm turning into a gun nut.






- MM