"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"HIPAA."

"HIPAA who?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you that."

I don't care who ya are, that's funny right there…

Woman: "We were having sex, and all of a sudden, he screamed."

AD: "And?"

Man: "And then blood spurted everywhere."

Woman: "It ain't coming from me."

AD: "And?"

Man: "And my privates hurt real bad."

AD (sighing because I am once again about to violate a Rule of EMS*): "Okay, lemme see."

Man (flipping away the sheets and looking up at me fearfully): "I hurt real bad, dude."

AD: "Ah, I see. When this happened, were you, um… how do I phrase this… having vigorous intercourse?"

Man and Woman: [blank stares]

AD: "You know, kinda enthusiastic?"

Man and Woman: [more blank stares]

AD (sighing): "Were you tapping it good, bro? Hittin' it hard?"

Woman: [blushes]

Man (proudly): "Yeah, I was. I was really plowing the short rows, man."

Partner: [gigglesnorts]

AD (suppressing a grin, and mentally adding a new phrase to my euphemisms for rough sex): "Yeah, that'll do it. You broke your penis, sir."

Man: "I didn't know you could break your penis. Will it heal on its own? I really don't want to go to the hospital."

AD: "You need to go to the hospital, sir."

Man (pressing hopefully): "Yeah, but it'll heal on its own, right? They're not gonna cut on my dick, are they?"

AD: "I don't know."

Woman: "Go to the hospital, baby. Somethin' wrong wit' you."

Man: "You said you've seen it before, though. What do you mean you don't know?"

AD: "I've seen broken penises before, but never one that bled externally. You need to see a urologist."

Man (stubbornly): "I ain't going to no hospital. I ain't lettin' nobody cut on my dick."

AD: "Sir, your penis is not supposed to look like an eggplant. Moreover, there are only two things that are supposed to come out of your urethra, and blood ain't one of 'em. If my junk was spouting blood like a friggin' pulsating shower head, I'd wanna get it looked at before it fell off."

Man: "Okay, I'll go to the hospital."

AD: "Wise choice, sir."

Paramedics have a pretty high threshold for what constitutes an emergency. Generally, if you ain't dying, we don't think it needs an ambulance.

But for anything that makes your penis spout an arterial blood spray, I'd make an exception.

*Rule Four of EMS: Handle no one's junk but your own.

Hey, Tim? Nice veins.

If Tim Tebow Was A Paramedic:

He’d have more code saves than any other medic in your system.

Of course, his detractors would point out that the reason is that Tim Tebow has more people die in his rig than any other medic in the system, because Tim Tebow struggles reading 12-lead EKG’s  and recognizing subtle patient presentations…

… but his fans would  counter with the fact that, once the patient is dead, Tim Tebow always seems to convert the patient to a perfusing rhythm on the first shock.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t happen until they’re dead!” his critics would retort.

“What does it matter as long as they go home neurologically intact?” his fans would crow. “A save is a save, baby!”

“Dude, the guy‘s a weak medic,” would come the counter argument. “He can’t read EKG’s, struggles with drug dosages, can’t remember the landmarks to do a needle decompression, breaks half a dozen teeth when he tries to intubate someone – “

“ –but gets the tube in when it really counts!” his fans would proclaim. “That’s what’s important, right?”

“Puhleeze. The guy has killed more people than smallpox.”

“He’s saved more people than Billy Graham!”

“Grim Reaper!”

“Johnny Gage and Roy DeSoto!”

“Dude, you’re talking about the guy like he’s an elite medic. Elite medics know cardiology like Tom Bouthillet. Elite medics manage an airway like Ambulance Driver. Elite medics are cool under pressure like TOTWTYTR. Tebow couldn’t stand on a stepladder and kiss those guys’ asses.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, how many code saves did those guys have this month? None, baby! Woo hoo!”

“That’s because those guys don’t let their patients code. They manage the call, so they don’t have to do any heroics at the end!”

“ Tim Tebow rules!”

“Tim Tebow drools.”

“You just hate him because he’s guided by the hand o’ Gawd!”

“I hate him because he gets the credit for every save, when it wouldn’t have been possible without the uninterrupted chest compressions done by his partner, or the prompt call to 911 by the patient’s family, or for the contributions of half a dozen other people. Nobody gets a save all by themselves. Resuscitation is a team sport.”

“TIM TEBOW WAS THE BEST EMT-B THAT EVER LIVED!”

“Yeah, but now he’s a medic. Everybody in this system was an awesome EMT-B, or they wouldn’t even be here. This is the pros, baby, and your boy’s game doesn’t work here.”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”

“Not gonna happen. Maybe your boy might make a decent – I mean just decent – medic with a lot of practice and a few years. But he ain’t there now, and he doesn’t even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Rogue Medic, or AD, or TOTWTYR, or Happy Medic. “

“HERETIC! GOD SEES YOU, UNBELIEVER!”

“Blow me.”

[fisticuffs ensue]

And while the argument raged around him, Tim Tebow would keep on running calls and doing his best for his patients, because he’s Tim Tebow, and he’s a good kid. He’d recognize that he’s got a gift for the heroic save, but he’d also be honest and admit that he’s still nowhere near the medic he should be.

And nobody would outwork him in getting there.

He’d be humble and self-effacing to his fans, always deflecting praise to his teammates (and God), and he’d be gracious to his critics. And he’d make some serious gaffes, but he’d keep on racking up saves.

And after each one, he’d Tebow.

Naturally.

Fred Sanford Syndrome: clinical disorder characterized by the life-threatening complaints in the absence of any objective clinical findings. Sufferers of Fred Sanford    Syndrome (FSS) usually present with chest pain, often accompanied by a constellation of associated symptoms including respiratory distress, dizziness, anxiety, syncope, flatulence, incontinence, amnesia, seizures, speaking in tongues, headaches, blurred vision, loss of vision, aphasia, dysphasia, paranoia, combativeness, belligerence, and catatonia.

FSS is thought to be triggered by emotional distress, often resulting from verbal conflict with family members. The hallmark signs of FSS are dying declarations, although these dying declarations are easily distinguished from from the far more ominous "profound sense of impending doom" often reported by acute coronary syndrome sufferers, primarily by the volume and frequency of the declarations, and the presence of a receptive audience.

FSS is exclusively found in males, although many healthcare care providers note its similarities to Scarlett O'Hara Syndrome (SOS) found in females, and postulate that it may indeed be the same disease.

Given the frequency at which I see this disorder, I think it's time we added it to the ICD-10.

Or, given the total lack of objective clinical findings, perhaps the DSM V.

The Borg has partnered me with green partners ever since I started here, and I try to impart a little of the experience and wisdom I've earned over the years. I mentor them, fill in the gaps in their knowledge, perhaps season them a bit, and ready them for paramedic school. Thus far, all of my previous partners are now medics, or currently in school. They've all been successful. I'm kinda proud of that, actually.

And since I'm literally old enough to be father to most of them, I sometimes get a little paternalistic, and teach some of life's lessons that have nothing to do with EMS; the things they'll need to succeed in life.

Like early this morning, for example, when I took the opportunity afforded by a slow Christmas Eve to teach Betty Rubble the most accurate -and most importantly, repeatable – way to bounce a quarter off a table into a Dixie cup. Hard to believe she made in through high school and a couple years of college without mastering that vital skill, but apparently she took different electives than I did in school.

You'd think the poor kid had never seen a man roll a quarter off his nose before.

In my city, when you're dispatched to the parish juvenile detention center, our GPS mapping software leads you to Chuck E. Cheese*.

True story.

* I'd say "directly to Chuck E. Cheese," but I don't think our route instructions lead you anywhere directly…

Top Ten Signs Your Dispatcher Hates You.

Enjoy!

* Not an actual movement. Photo posed for humorous purposes only. Don't get excited, Dr. Bledsoe.

I killed the biggest deer of my life at Blogorado 2009, took him down at a dead run with a 318 Dakota. FarmGirl hits an elk with her Crown Victoria earlier in the year, leading to the construction of the Blogorado War Wagon and Death Machine, and then I take down a deer the day before I left for Blogorado, dinging my previously pristine 2010 Tacoma.

I don't know what it is with me and deer. I mean, I try to be vigilant, I scan the roadsides at night, I've installed those little ultrasonic deer-repelling whistles on every vehicle I've ever owned, and…

… oh, wait. Turns out I've had the damned things mounted backwards all along.

Well, shit. That explains things.