Saturday, September 6, 2008

R.I.P., Dyckmobile (Part 3)

In the last installment of R.I.P., DyckMobile, our hero was being rushed to the hospital with a shattered right arm thanks to the carelessness of the driver of a certain piece-of-shit blue Mustang. Will Dyckerson ever be able to masturbate again?? Let's find out now, in part trois of R.I.P., DyckMobile.....

The ceilings at M.C.V. Hospital are quite lovely. I wish I could tell you more about the facility, but thanks to the anti-lawsuit brace they had around my neck, I could only see straight up. I do know that the ER area had a number of small examining rooms, all of which were full at the they parked my stretcher in a hallway and told me to wait.

So I laid there and waited. And I waited some more. And after that, I waited a little more.

I should point out that M.C.V. is a learning facility. (M.C.V. stands for Medical College of Virginia.) I tell you this because my next visitor appeared to have just woken up after an all-night frat party. He had scraggly hair and two days worth of stubble on his unwashed face. He held a magic marker in one hand and a plastic arm band in the other.

"Uhhh, Mr. Dyckerson?" he asked in his Beavis-esque voice.

"Please. My father is Mr. Dyckerson. Call me Mighty," I said, bravely attempting to break the ice despite the debilitating pain.

"Uhhh, OK whatever dude," he muttered. "Look, I was s'posed to put this plastic thing on your arm like an hour ago. Please don't tell my professor, OK? If I flunk pre-med again, my parents are gonna make me join the Army."

I stared at him blankly.

"Umm, OK, like, so I'm gonna put this on your right arm now..." he said, reaching for my mutilated limb.

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, DOOGIE!! In case you hadn't noticed, my right arm is severely disfigured!" I extended my other arm. "Here, put it on this one."

Beavis scratched his lice-ridden head, looking deeply puzzled. "Uhhh, I don't think we're s'posed to do that..."

The great wrist band debate went on for a good ten minutes before a nurse finally arrived. Without speaking, she snatched the band from Beavis' tattoo-covered hand and strapped it on my left arm.

"Shoo," she told him. "Go empty the bedpan in 311."

She then looked over my chart, scribbled a few notes, and wheeled over long metal pole with a hook at the top. "How would you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?" she asked me.

What the fuck kind of question is that? Am I some sort of pain expert??!! If I say 10, and later on it hurts even worse, then what??! On the other hand, if I play it conservatively and go with a 5, then is she going to skimp on the Morphine??! I CAN'T WIN!!!!!

After mulling this over in my head for a few seconds, I came up with 8.2. The nurse sighed, shook her head, and muttered something that sounded like "pussy" under her breath.

"Are you allergic to anything?" she asked.

This is at least the third time I have heard this question. By this point, I was running out of smartass responses, so I just told her no. She then grabbed a ziplock bag filled with a pale yellow liquid, hanged it upon the pole/hook device, and jammed the business end into my I.V. tube.

"There, that oughta hold you," she said with a grunt. "The doctor will see you shortly."

"Thank God," I sighed. Unfortunately I didn't realize that her definition of "shortly" was approximately TWO HOURS.

In one of the nearby examining rooms, a woman was moaning loudly. I figured she was either in labor...or having the orgasm of a lifetime. Either way, her vagina was surely involved. Of course, I chose to go with my orgasm theory. After a few minutes, I started to get into it. Every time she would moan, I would follow it up with a deep, gutteral groan. Then she picked up the tempo a bit. The moans became shorter and more frequent. I played along, adding my grunts and groans right on cue.

Suddenly, the moaning stopped. Somewhere an alarm went off. Nurses started running into the room that was the source of the moaning. Oh shit, what have I done? I've gone and killed this poor woman with my intense lovemaking. Dyckerson, your right arm may be shattered. and you may be hopped up on Morphine...but you've still got it!!!

Just then, a middle aged guy in a white coat showed up at my side. He was apparently in a hurry, because he didn't waste time with any small talk.

"Get this man into X-Ray! STAT!!!" he ordered. OK, he didn't really say "stat." I got that from a rerun of M*A*S*H. But he did order x-rays. Oh yeah, and he asked me if I was allergic to anything.

And what happened next was so horrible, so unbelievably awful, you will not believe your eyes. And you'll find out what that was..........on the next installment of The Mighty Blog!!!

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