Every EMT has run that one call that pegs their personal Weird ****-O-Meter, and I am no exception. During a career spent working in rural Louisiana, I have experienced enough of these calls to have developed a firm belief in Vuja De.


Now what is Vuja De, you ask? Well, it's the polar opposite of Deja Vu - the feeling that what you are witnessing has never before been seen in the recorded history of man.

I'm not speaking of the garden variety weirdness that every EMT experiences as a matter of course. Fact is, most any experienced EMT has seen at least one person with a foreign object inserted in a Forbidden Place, or delivered the fruit of an immaculate conception - "What? A baby??? I can't be havin' no baby!" - that such tales told in EMS circles barely merit a polite chuckle and an impromptu game of one-upmanship.

"What's that you say? A Faberge egg? Stuck where? Yeah well, that's a good one, but I bet you didn't know that an egg beater blade could fit in a person's rectum, did ya? No? Well, let me tell ya what happens when you attach it to the motor and turn the thing on! We had this call one time..."

It's a time-honored EMS pastime, good for hours of fun and enjoyment.

Well, the call that pegged my meter happened on an early fall night in the not-too-distant past. I found myself kneeling on blood-soaked ground, tending an elderly woman who did not yet realize she was dead. Her husband already was, ripped from stem to stern like a victim from a slasher movie. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that it appeared their assailant had wielded something like a cross between a machete and a potato masher. In dry medical prose, their injuries were Inconsistent With Life.

The woman didn't know it yet though, and insisted on struggling to the last, as we human beings are wont to do when faced with the prospect of shuffling off the old mortal coil. She lay there struggling to breathe, her hands folded to her chest in decorticate posturing, a hallmark sign of a serious brain injury. While I feverishly did my Paramedic Thing and secured her airway while my partner Mike bandaged her wounds in futile effort to stanch the bleeding, I more-or-less casually asked the sheriff's deputies if they knew who had attacked the couple. More importantly, was the maniac still on the loose?

You know, important stuff to know.

"Yep," one of them replies laconically. "Right out there," he points with his Maglite.

I look out into the pasture, and centered in the beam is our assailant, curiously observing the goings-on. He is a rooster ostrich standing nearly 7 feet tall, and he looks, well...pissed. He might have been even bigger than 7 feet. Maybe eight. Or nine. He was big in the way that a jealous boyfriend looks big when you realize you've been fondling the ass of Mongo's girlfriend all night on the dance floor while he played pool with the rest of the defensive linemen.

Forget the cute fuzzy creature at the beginning of this post. This is not the clumsy, ungainly creature that poor Jim would wrestle to the ground and tag with a radio collar while Marlon Perkins narrated the action from the safe confines of the base camp. No, this critter is an assassin. Picture fangs. And soaked to the knees in blood and gore. If he had a name, it would be Jason or Freddy.

I gape at first, then quickly turn my attention back to my patient, busying myself with taping her endotracheal tube in place and helping get her secured on a spine board. We're strapping her down when I am frozen by the faint, but unmistakable whisper of six duty weapons being pulled from retention holsters en masse.

I look up, and struggle manfully to retain control of my bowels. Our Avian Assassin is now ten feet away, and he looks MIGHTY curious at what we're doing. I learned something important about myself that day. I have useful skills other than the healing arts. If you ever need a diamond, give me a charcoal briquet and a pissed off killer ostrich, and I'll turn it into a diamond for ya. Just don't ask where it's been.

"Uh, shoot that thing, will you please?" I request, although perhaps not quite so politely.

"Dandy idea," sez Mike, his hand twitching in the general vicinity of his right hip. On his days off from his EMT gig, Mike is a reserve deputy.

"Can't do it," replies Steve, the shift commander that night. His voice hasn't even changed. Quite impressive, really.

"Whaddaya mean, can't do it?" I splutter. How hard can it be? You know - grip, sight picture, trigger squeeze, repeat as necessary. Seems pretty straightforward to me. From the affirmative grunts of several of the deputies, they think it's a fine idea too.

"We can't destroy this animal without authorization. Right now, he isn't posing a threat."

I pondered the wisdom of that statement as I tended to the (barely) living proof that Freddy the Avian Assassin was indeed a threat. Steve went on to say, "Just don't make any sudden moves. Slide the board back behind us, and ease her to the ambulance. If he comes any closer, we'll take him down."

Cool customer, that Steve. Not the most independent thinker in the world, but cool. As long as there were six .40 caliber Glocks between me and the bird, I suppose I was reasonably safe.

Riiiiiiiight.

An eternity later, we're headed to the nearest Trauma Center, forty minutes away. Mike hops up front to drive, while I am joined in the back by the Missus and another medic. We get bilateral IVs, pour some fluids into her and keep on ventilating, and still she gets worse. BP now hovering in the 70s (that's a Bad Thing, for you non-medical folks), heart rate steadily dropping, and she's completely flaccid by the time we roll her into the ER...

"Female, mid sixties, attacked by an ostrich. Husband was DOA. She has a wound through her chest extending from her neck to the lower margin of her rib cage that pretty much removed her left breast, and sundry other smaller wounds. Decorticate posturing on scene. Intubated, two liters of fluids, last set of vitals was BP 70/36, pulse 56, no spontaneous breathing," sez I to the ER Doc as we rolled into the trauma resuscitation room.

"An ostrich you say?" muses Doc as he peels back the bandage on her chest, listens to breath sounds, checks her pupils and such. He lifts her hands and peers over the rim of his glasses at the numerous bruises and lacerations on her hands and forearms. "I dunno," he says dubiously. "These look like defensive wounds to me."

Perceptive fellow. They probably develop those superior powers of observation in medical school.

"Uuuuhhh, what don't you know?" I ask pointedly. If he's disputing my assessment, I'd like to know why.

"Oh no, don't get me wrong," Doc hastens to assure me. He shakes his head, furrows his brow. "It's just that...well, this doesn't look like any ostrich attack that I've ever seen."

Long pause. The chuckles begin slowly and become contagious, until the entire ER staff is rolling with laughter. Everyone that is, except the Doc. My head swims with images of packs of killer ostriches roaming the countryside, terrorizing the citizenry and sending them to the ER in need of treatment. Perhaps southern Arkansas has a problem The CDC Needs To Know About.

"Uh Doc? Just how many ostrich attacks have you seen?" I inquire delicately, amidst renewed guffaws. Mike is clutching his sides and gasping, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Well I've seen...actually this would be my first..." the Doc stammers and begins to chuckle himself. Finally, "What I meant to say is that this doesn't look like any animal attack I've ever seen."

He banishes us promptly from his ER, muttering under his breath something about "only from Louisiana..."

We stop back at the scene to pick up my POV so the Missus can drive it home, and we find six very shaken deputies hovering near the carcass of a very dead ostrich. Steve is sitting on the tailgate of his patrol SUV, shaking his head in disbelief. His hands are trembling, and his voice is no longer very cool.

"We got the go ahead to kill him. I hit him center mass with two .40 rounds. Sum***** didn't even flinch..."

"S-s-sum-sum***** charged us!" chimes in another deputy, his voice quavering. "I had to take him out with the riot gun. Two rounds of three inch, double-ought buck! He p-p-piled up right at our f-f-feet..."

I pat Steve reassuringly on the shoulder, walk over and prod the carcass with a toe. I turn to the rest of the deputies.

"I don't know about you guys, but I've got dibs on the drumsticks."

Until next time...

i laugh everytime i read that one

about sumdood and his evilness

that's some funny ****, i have been in that situation, not as bad as him but was needing to go really bad when a call drops.

i guess you don't get it...sumdood is out there as we speak messing people up

did you even read it mirror

Sumdood: Evil Criminal Mastermind

"So what happened, man?" I ask the guy as I shine a penlight into his eyes, checking his pupillary responses.

"Got hit," mumbles the guy, stating the obvious. With one hand, he's holding the absorbent gauze pad I've given him against the big laceration on the side of his head, as he absentmindedly tugs his shorts up with the other. Not too far up, mind you - just enough to perch precariously on his ass cheeks and still leave about four inches of boxers showing. Scalp wound and abrasions be damned, he has street fashion to consider.

"I meant, what happened exactly," I explain patiently, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. I palpate the back of his neck. "What did they hit you with, and did you get knocked out?"

"Hell no!" he blurts indignantly, pulling away. He starts getting wound up, because now he has a story to tell. He gestures animatedly to the porch behind him, and to his buddies currently being interviewed by the police. There is a small crowd gathered on the street. "See, I was just sittin' here, kickin' it with my peeps, noamsayne? Mindin' my own, noamsayne? And then..."

...And you were just sitting there with your Bible study group, drinking a wholesome glass of milk and holding your weekly devotional, when all of a sudden and for no reason...

"...and then, I just got jumped, noamsayne? And I di'int do nuthin!"

No doubt there were seven of them, far too many for you and your homies to defeat in a stand-up, fair fight.

"Then, dude just drops the brick and runs off!"

Whoa, just one guy! He must have been a baaaaaaaad ass...

"Did you get a look at this guy?" I ask. "Would you recognize him again?" Immediately, his eyes turn shifty and evasive.

"Nah man, I ain't ever seen dude before," he lies. "He just some dude."

"Sumdood?" I ask with sharpened interest. "You say Sumdood jumped you?"

He's close, I can feel it. I knew it when the hairs stood up on the back of my neck when I got out of the rig. Evil lurks nearby.

"Yeah man," the guy confirms. "Some dude."

"There he is, over there!" the guy's girlfriend says helpfully, pointing toward the crowd, "just standin' over there like he ain't did nuthin'!"

"Shhh, don't point at him!" I hiss, pulling her arm down. "Just be cool, a'ight?"

"Aww girl, that ain't him," the guy says, feigning disgust. "Siddown and shut yo mouf."

"That is him!" she insists. "I seen tha' whole thang!"

"Shut. Yo. Mouf. Woman!" the guy warns through clenched teeth. The girlfriend, chastened, clams up.

He recognizes the guy, he just doesn't want to admit to it. He'll round up his posse and try to exact some street justice as soon as all the cops have gone. But he doesn't know who he's dealing with. All of them together are no match for Sumdood.

I catch Farting Partner's eye and jerk my head toward one of the cops. He nods in understanding, hands me the two-inch tape he's holding, and saunters over to one of the currently unoccupied police officers. Attempting to look casual, I finish taping up the gauze helmet FP has applied to our patient's lacerated cranium.

"What's up?" Officer Friendly asks quizzically as FP steers him over to us.

"Don't look too obvious," I tell him sotto voce, "But the perpetrator is standing over in the crowd. It's Sumdood."

Officer Friendly's eyes narrow, and he casts a surreptitious glance at the crowd. "Which one?" he asks, rolling the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

"The guy in the wifebeater shirt, baggy black denim shorts, with all the bling."

"And which one of twenty would that be?" Officer Friendly asks, mildly exasperated.

"Sorry," I apologize. "The one second from the left, toward the back. About five-ten, 160 pounds, corn row braids. It's Sumdood, I know it." The girlfriend nods in confirmation.

"Him?" Officer Friendly asks incredulously. "Sheeeeeit, that's just Tyrone. He's a low level crack dealer. I've busted him a couple of times. He's harmless."

"I don't care what his street name is, I'm telling you it's Sumdood!" I insist. "The victim identified him!"

"He doesn't fit Sumdood's description," the cop informs me. "I've got a composite sketch of him in the cruiser. Sumdood is at least six-three, and weighs 235. And he has an Afro. Besides, they just had a sighting of him not five minutes ago, all the way across town, at a drive-by shooting. No way he made it over here that fast."

"You underestimate Sumdood," I inform him sadly, shaking my head.

Oh, little does he understand the nature of Evil. Am I alone able to sense his presence? Will I forever be cursed with the burden of thwarting Sumdood? Oh well, with great power comes great responsibility.

"Sumdood is all around us," I educate the cop. "I have spent lonely years wandering the wilderness in my quest to stop him. It's what I do. Picking up little old ladies who have fallen and can't get up is just my cover."

"Are you okay?" Officer Friendly asks, concerned. "You got a fever or something?"

"Listen to Ambulance Driver," FP says solemnly. "We have seen things that would turn your hair white. Uh, that is, if you had any, I mean. Sumdood possesses powers that - "

"I got this, FP," I say, interrupting my trusty sidekick. "Look, Officer Friendly. This is really beyond your level of experience and training. Sumdood has powers you can't begin to fathom. He's nearly immortal. Our only hope is to capture him when he takes physical form. You get the cuffs on him before he dissolves into smoke, I'll bind him with the Sacred Three Inch Tape, anoint him with saline, and stab him in the heart with a sharpened caduceus made of rosewood. We'll be heroes."

"You guys have lost your ****ing minds," the cop replies in disgust. "That guy's name is Tyrone Rockslinger. He's lives over on Lee Street, and he's been locked up in the parish jail for the past six months on possession with intent.

"You poor, deluded man," I sigh tolerantly. "I realize this may sound unbelievable to you. It's almost unbelievable to me too, and I've pursued Sumdood across the sands of time. Consider the fact that every description of Sumdood is different. Think of how Sumdood is often in two places at the same time. Think of how widely varied his modus operandi is. It's obvious we're dealing with a master criminal here, someone with superhuman powers."

"We think he may be the third coming of the AntiChrist," FP pronounces solemnly. "Only way to be sure is to examine his scalp."

"You sure about this?" the cop asks dubiously. "He doesn't seem all that dangerous-looking to me."

"Looks are deceiving, believe me," I warn him. "He is a shapeshifter, able to assume the guise of any being he touches. My guess is that the original Tyrone is stuffed in a trashcan somewhere."

"And you say this Sumdood person is the one responsible for our complainant's injuries?

"Oh, he's responsible for a lot more than that, my friend," FP says darkly. "He towed the iceberg into the shipping lanes, directly into the path of the Titanic. During the sacking of Jerusalem, he was directly respons -"

"He's a bad dude, okay?" I interrupt, casting a warning glance at Farting Partner, "and this is as close as I've been since the Chicago Fire of 1871. We have to act now."

"The Chicago Fire of 1871?" Officer Friendly asks skeptically. "Bull****. Mrs. O'Leary's cow started that fire, and - "

"There was a cow there, yes," I explain urgently, my patience wearing thin. "There was a cow, and Sumdood was...well, he was trying to...see, he had the cow backed up to this stool and he was standing on it, and...well, I tried to stop him, and in the struggle a lantern got knocked over, okay? Satisfied?"

"But that was over 120 years ago," Officer Friendly protested. "You don't look much older than thirty-five!"

"I am far, far older than I appear," I explain wearily, "but my soul cannot rest until Sumdood has been banished back into the depths. I am trapped on this plane until I have defeated my enemy."

"Who are you?" the cop hissed, eyes bright with curiosity. And fear.

I have to level with this man. I need him.

"I am one of an ancient and secret order of paramedics," I level with him. "Even the mention of our existence is forbidden. We live among you, and always we are watching. We have tracked Sumdood for milennia, seeking ever to thwart him in his quest."

"And what quest is that?"

"The end of civilization as we know it," I say flatly, meeting his gaze. "We managed to stop him when he sabotaged the bilges on the Ark. He released the first rat that started the Black Plague. He started the flu pandemic of 1918 when he sneezed into an all-you-can eat mutton bar in Madrid."

"Ask anybody around here where they bought their methamphetamine, heroin or crack," FP suggests. "What do they all say?"

"Sumdood," Officer Friendly muses thoughtfully.

"And who is the babydaddy of half the unwed teen mothers around here?" I ask.

"Sumdood."

"Sumdood was the second gunman on the grassy knoll," FP informs him.

"He kidnapped the Lindbergh baby, and let poor Bruno Hauptman take the fall for it. He has to be stopped."

"And we're pretty sure he was the source of the faulty intelligence that led us into Iraq," FP furnishes. "We can't let him get away."

"We have to take this ****er down," Officer Friendly says decisively. "He must be stopped."

"Glad you saw it our way, Officer."

"Hey you, Sum - I mean, Tyrone!" Officer Friendly bellows. "Get your ass over here!" FP and I take up flanking positions and don dark sunglasses, hands at the ready.

"Waaaaazzzzaaaap, Officer Friendly?" Sumdood brays as he sidles up. He casts a sidelong glance at me. I smile grimly, poised on the balls of my feet.

I know who you are, scumbag. And soon you'll be mine.

"These EMTs here say you did this," Officer Friendly says curtly, jerking his thumb at our gauze-helmeted patient. "As a matter of fact, they say you're responsible for a lot more. I want some answers."

"Whaa, me?" protests Sumdood, the picture of innocence. "I ain't did nothin'!" He fixes the crowd on the porch with a piercing stare. "Ain't that right?"

"Uh huh," gauze head agrees vacantly. "Musta been somebody else..."

"Ooooh, my bad!" chimes in his girlfriend with a glazed look in her eyes. "Gurlfriend wuz wrong."

"See, Officer Friendly?" Sumdood grins triumphantly. "Just a case of mistaken identity. I can go now, right?"

"You can go now..." drools Officer Friendly as he stares into Sumdood's eyes, slack jawed.

Sumdood throws us a mocking salute and does the pimp limp back into the crowd, fading into nothingness as FP and I stand there, mute in our rage. Sumdood is too strong for us to take on alone.

We were thisclose, people. Just a pair of handcuffs away from capturing the greatest threat to human health since AIDS or the Anopheles mosquito, and we missed our chance. But I'm still on the job, and I'll never quit until I run Sumdood to ground.

But until then, Sumdood is still out there. And he's only getting stronger.

nice

did ya read it though

this is from one of the funniest and most jaded paramedics on the planet.."kelly" grayson..


There are 60 seconds in a minute. That’s 3600 seconds in an hour, and 43,200 seconds in a twelve-hour shift. Given the fact that our parish has a population of roughly 150,000, and there are usually at least four ambulances on duty at any one time, dividing a daily call volume of fifty or so calls between them, the chances seem infinitesimally small that I would constantly get called out while I am on the toilet. Yet here I sit, wrestling with a pager and my pants, desperately tearing one square at a time off a toilet paper roll that refuses to live up to its name – roll – trying to get back to my rig where my partner eagerly awaits the opportunity to rescue some helpless little old lady who has fallen and can’t get up.

I’m stapled to the toilet in Taco Bell, fighting with the vindictive byproducts of two combo burritos with extra sour cream. Right now, Taco Bell is winning. Every time I get zipped up and my hand touches the bathroom doorknob, my guts spasm again and I find myself scrambling to make it back to the toilet in time. Each time my ass touches the toilet seat, my pager buzzes in an angry snarl, reminding me that time’s a wastin’ and Grandma’s hip is just getting sorer. I feel like I’m stuck in a game of Operation. I sigh and check my pager again. It’s a Priority Two, just a lift assist, at a residence just a few blocks from here.

Thank God. My response time will suck, but at least nobody’s dying. You know, I could just plug myself up and refuse to **** ever again. Now that would be a valuable public health initiative. Nobody would fall, or have strokes, go into cardiac arrest and die, or have asthma attacks. People would manage their blood sugar appropriately, and would drive safely and never have accidents. I’d be the modern day Jonas Salk. Nah, it would never work. I’d swell up and explode, and the greater patient populace would be forever deprived of my many talents.

I sigh and switch the portable radio to the talk-around channel before I key the mike. “Control, this is 306. We’ll be on that call in just a couple of minutes.”

“We’ve been holding that call for ten minutes now, 306. What’s the holdup?” comes the impatient reply.

Ten minutes, my ass. You only paged it to us three minutes ago.

I wait until my bowels stop rumbling before I reply. Gastronomical sound effects would be embarrassing right now. “Control, I’m uh, a little indisposed at the moment. I’ll be 10-8 in a minute.”

“How are you indisposed, 306?” the dispatcher presses. I can just see her smirking at her console. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my guts twist into a knot.

“If you must know, I’m on the ****ter!” I blurt. At that precise moment, my bowels burst forth like a volcano. It sounds like the nature show footage of male elephant seals fighting for mates.

“Ten-four, 306. Let us know when you’re en route,” comes the strangled reply, amid raucous laughter. Several laughing voices, in fact.

Well, there’s one dispatch tape that will be played again and again for the entertainment of the crews. I’ll have to run the ridicule gauntlet at shift change.

“Everything come out all right?” my partner smirks as I climb into the rig. Dusty Jensen has been an EMT for eight months. EMS hasn’t had the time yet to turn him into an out-of-shape old man with stiff knees and hemorrhoids. Right now, he’s twenty-three, blonde and having the time of his life. He lives for the bad calls, drives like the NASCAR fan that he is, shamelessly flirts with every unattached nurse in every Emergency Department, and is young and naïve enough to think that he invented the practice.

“Everything coming out is not the problem. That stuff punishes me every time I eat it.” I settle uncomfortably into my seat, buckling my seatbelt.

“So why do you insist on eating there?” he asks as he pulls into traffic.

“Other than the fact that it’s half-price?” I retort. “I have no idea. Taco Bell is my weakness.” Dusty says nothing, just gives me a sideways glance that communicates quite clearly that food in general is my weakness.

“Yeah, laugh it up rookie, “ I sigh, shifting gingerly in my seat as my guts start to rumble again. “When I got into this business, I looked like you. Twelve years of ambulance calls and fast food will do this to you.”

“We’re five minutes late responding to this call,” Dusty points out as he crosses Harrison Boulevard and turns left onto Donovan Circle. “They’ll probably have something to say about it.”

Nothing compared to the razzing I’m going to take from everybody in the control center. I’d much rather suffer through an ass-chewing for the late call.

“I’ll take the responsibility,” I assure him. “You can’t control the fact that your partner was on the ****ter when they gave us the call.”

“You can’t just hold it?” he asks like the rookie he is, having never experienced hemorrhoids, gastric reflux, heartburn or indigestion. He is bright, eager and in disgustingly good shape. Right now I freaking hate him. He makes me feel old.

“No, I can’t just hold it,” I explain patiently. “Always take the opportunity to piss or take a dump when it presents itself. All too often, you’ll need to but won’t have the opportunity. Besides, holding in a dump is unhealthy. It eventually backs up into your brain. That’s where ****ty ideas like System Status Management come from.” I grimace and try to think about dams and brick walls as I feel my guts rumble ever more insistently.

By the time Dusty pulls to the curb outside 1512 Donovan Circle, my digestive system is in revolt. I am able to hold it in only through a supreme act of will and years of practice. We knock on the door and get no answer. I do a little potty dance on the doorstep, shifting uncomfortably from one leg to the other. Dusty cautiously opens the unlocked front door and calls out, “EMS! Somebody call an ambulance?”

“Back here,” a frail voice answers. “I’m in the bedroom!”

Dusty and I weave our way through the house, occasionally calling out “Where are you?” and being answered with “back here!” It’s an EMS version of Marco Polo. Eventually we find ourselves in the rearmost bedroom. There is a frail little woman sitting on the floor next to her wheelchair, looking very much embarrassed.

“Thank goodness,” the woman sighs happily. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” The woman self-consciously arranges her housedress to cover her exposed knees.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Dusty says sympathetically. “We were tied up on an emergency call,” he lies with a sidelong glance at me, “and we hurried just as fast as we could.”

“But we’re here now, so why don’t we get you off this hard floor and back into the bed?” I offer quickly. “Did you injure yourself when you fell?”

Please God, say no. The last thing I need is to be tied up with her for the next thirty minutes.

“I don’t think so,” she answers. “I forgot to lock the wheels on my chair, and it just kind of squirted out from under me,” she says, extending her arms to us. “If you young men could just help me up…”

“Don’t move, Ma’am,” Dusty says gravely, looking back at me and grinning evilly. “You may have injuries that aren’t immediately apparent. At least let us assess you before we move you.”

Goddamn you, Dusty Jensen. You’ll pay for this. I say nothing and just smile and nod, afraid to move suddenly.

“Well yes, I suppose that’s a good idea,” she agrees, pleased that this handsome young man is so solicitous. After this call, I’m going to going to beat the handsome young man’s ass, if I don’t wind up ****ting myself first.

Dusty slowly and gently palpates her hips and lower extremities as I feel the sweat break out on my forehead. It’s the most thorough assessment I’ve ever seen him perform. I surreptitiously look around for a bathroom.

You are the master of your own body. Your sphincter is under your control. You are the master of your own body. Your sphincter is under your control. You are the master of your own…

“And does any of this hurt?” Dusty is asking as he flexes her feet and knees. If he had a reflex hammer, the little bastard would be checking her deep tendon reflexes.

Brick walls. The Hoover Dam. Fort Knox. Nuclear reactor control rods. Blast doors at NORAD…

“Any history of osteoporosis? Degenerative joint disease? Ever have a hip, knee or shoulder replacement?” Dusty is asking as he palpates the woman’s shoulders. I almost whimper as I shift from one leg to the other. My ass cheeks are clenched so tight I could squeeze a diamond from a charcoal briquet.

Setting concrete. Death Valley. Dry riverbeds. Intravenous infusions of Lomotil. Molasses in the wintertime…

“Okay Mrs. Perkins, I think we can safely help you up,” Dusty pronounces, motioning me over. “If you’ll just plant your feet firmly on the floor and take our hands…” I fix a pained smile on my face and bend over slightly, offering my hand.

Mudslides in Colombia. A tsunami in Sri Lanka. Lava flowing from a Peruvian volcano… Focus, man!

Dusty and I manage to help Mrs. Perkins back into her wheelchair. Dusty takes one of our run tickets from the clipboard and turns it to the refusal of care page. “Mrs. Perkins, if you’ll just sign here, signifying that you were not injured and did not want an ambulance to the hospital…” He trails off, patting his shirt pockets. Glaring, I grimly hand him my pen.

A fireworks factory explodes in China. Champagne corks popping. A horrific explosion in the Jello pudding factory. Oh Lord, I ain’t gonna make it…

“Thank you so much for your assistance,” Mrs. Perkins is gushing, shaking Dusty’s hand gratefully. As she turns to me, I grasp her hand and nearly double over. “Are you all right, dear?” she asks me, seeing the look on my face.

“Uh, could you point me to your bathroom?” I blurt in desperation. Bewildered, she points down the hall. Without another word I bolt in that direction, opening doors until I find the right one. Slamming the door with one hand, I fumble with my belt with the other, dropping my pager into the toilet in the process. I barely make it onto the toilet in time. I swear they can hear the elephant seals fighting all the way down the block.

taco bell mirror, that's all i gotta say

hey man i brought my laptop so it's gonna be a bit

ah yeeessss

the conversation of all conversations


all convos should end with the word "poop"

and then some more poop

ya tik does have it coming but he was also following orders like a foot soldier does..

i think clay is the one to blame there...

jax needs to take control and knock clay out of the drivers seat there...

i think opie got the bad end of the stick..

any thoughts on next season?

were they hiding

really, why is that...

and damn them for not having one.

what's the dealio kiddos