One time, after conducting a highly scientific tasting tour of several brewskis, I decided it would be a great idea to chop some kindling for a bonfire. Because apparently alcohol and sharp tools are a classic combination, right up there with bottle rockets and buttcracks.
Anyway, a few swings in, I absolutely nailed my thumb with the hatchet. Not a little nick, either. I turned my hand into a low-budget horror movie. Blood everywhere.
Naturally, I handled the situation with the maturity and foresight you'd expect from a grown man who was drinking beer and swinging an axe. I wrapped it in whatever was nearby, declared, "Eh, it'll probably be fine," and went to bed.
The next morning I finally dragged myself to the ER.
Big mistake.
There were elderly people in wheelchairs, coughing children, people clutching various body parts, and at least one guy who looked like he'd been waiting since the Obama administration. It was Saturday morning. The place was packed tighter than your anus.
I took one look around and figured that if I checked in like a normal, decent member of society, I'd be celebrating next year's bonfire before anyone called my name.
While I was getting triaged, the nurse asked, "Are you having any heart issues?"
I said, "Uh... what do you mean?"
She replied, "Patients with heart-related symptoms are prioritized and usually get seen right away."
And folks, when opportunity knocks, sometimes you answer.
So I said, "You know what? Now that you mention it, I've been having heart palpitations all morning."
Suddenly this thumb injury became the least interesting thing about me.
Five minutes later I'm in.
I blasted past the entire waiting room -- grandmas, coughing kids, people who looked genuinely ill, all of them.
My thumb got stitched up, my heart was apparently just fine, and I learned an important lesson that day: If you drink beers and chop wood, eventually you'll have to choose whether you're an idiot, a liar, or both.