If you're going to run somebody over with your truck, or with your motorcycle, or with your mid-eighties Impala, please try to be sure that you do the job right. I'm getting very tired of patients with a promising, bright future, who were run over in the course of a mugging/robbery/kidnapping attempt. It gets old. Either kill them, or give them a miraculous escape. Thank you.
Likewise, Baby Einsteins, if you're going to go after somebody with a tire iron--and what is it with tire irons these days? Back in *my* day, we were lucky to have chains! Get offa my lawn, you rotten kids!--be sure you do the job correctly, so that they can't identify you to their various family members and friends. That way, I won't have to take care of your sorry ass when you get rolled and sustain a subdural hematoma of truly awe-inspiring proportions.
And if you're here on my floor from over at County, leg irons intact, because you got fucked up by your cellmate when he found out you're a rapist and child molester, do not try to flirt with me. I can't state this strongly enough: My oath says that I'm to relieve pain and ease suffering and facilitate the transition back to health regardless of whom I'm working with, and I take that seriously. I will, however, walk *real slow* on the way to your room when I'm carrying morphine. That oath says nothing about returning you to health in a timely fashion. Suck it up.
Last but not least, if you're gonna ride your crotchrocket 120 miles an hour without leathers or a helmet, at least try not to pop a wheelie just north of Waco during rush hour. The fact that your reflexes were fast enough that you avoided death is no comfort to your parents, who get to watch you drool on yourself, or to me, who has to change the umpteen dressings occasioned by your nearly-full-body skin grafts.
It's been one of those weeks. I'm going off to eat salt now, and drink some of the beer Friend Suz was nice enough to leave in the fridge.