Let’s have a short and sweet story that involves somebody else’s drunken pain, shall we? Though he wasn’t the focus of the story, you may remember Double D from the story Mexican Bathroom. Well, for this story, he gets to be the star of the show.
The story starts like many others: with a non-descript night of irresponsible drinking. And as the night wore on, much like many other similar nights, at a certain point the drunken mind decides that eating all the food ever is the only acceptable course of action left to take. Of course, we’re not totally irresponsible or complete morons (debatable), so our small group decided that the best plan would be to walk to the local 24 hour diner in town, Buzzies. It wasn’t a particularly far walk and shouldn’t have really been too hazardous, but sometimes shit happens and tonight was a fine example of that. Really, the only obstacle along the way was crossing over some train tracks that are actually inset into the street, so they’re supposed to be pretty easy to just walk over. Supposed to be. Despite the low difficulty-level of crossing these tracks, Double D managed to trip over them and fall down.
The fall didn’t look all the bad to everyone else, but Double D was howling in pain and claiming that he had broken his hand. Well, that was all fine and dandy, but these train tracks are literally 50 feet from Buzzies and life is all about priorities so we told him to suck it up, come get some breakfast and maybe we’d think about looking at his hand after everyone had a full belly. He was not okay with this, but this is a democracy and he was outvoted so we dragged him along to the diner. Inside, as everyone perused the menu he continued to cry about his hand hurting (the big baby). Now, nobody there was a doctor but we figured we go ahead and take a look anyways because there wasn't a single one of us there who hadn't watched either House, ER or Scrubs and we assumed that was enough medical knowledge to handle this situation. His pinky finger was bent in a way that did look unnatural and probably quite painful (in our expert medical opinions), but we were already there and nobody (except Double D) was willing to leave without getting some food. My buddy AJ gave the pinky a quick tug, then used a couple of butter knives, some napkins and straw wrappers to MacGyver together a splint for Double D’s finger (because that's what friends are for).
We stole some silverware from the next table over (since ours was being used to keep Double D’s finger straight) and sat eating our meal. Double D may or may not have gotten some tears in his biscuits and gravy, but it was a dire situation and we will not judge a man for that. After breakfast was finished and paid for, we began the walk to the hospital (because this clearly wasn’t an emergency as we had just sat and eaten a bunch of food rather than immediately seeking medical attention). We set out across town on this journey, having stolen the butter knives from Buzzies to keep as the splint on Double D's pinky.
At the hospital, the doctor confirmed what Double D had said from the get-go, that his pinky was broken (seriously, who drunkenly falls on train tracks and breaks their pinky?). He also asked who had fashioned the butter-knife splint, which AJ owned up to. The doctor looked at him and in all seriousness said, “Nice job on that splint.”
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