How NOT To Win Friends And Influence Police Officers

Our call of the day yesterday included two of the most common factors we deal with in the World of EMS: alcohol and idiots. These two factors are also part of my job security, so I shouldn't complain too loudly.
We got a call for shortness of breath at the clubhouse of a local golf course. Now, see, already, my Skepticism-O-Meter is starting to head towards the Red Zone. It was already after dark when we got this call, so I was doubting very seriously that we were going for someone struck in the head with a golf ball. More likely, some 25 handicapper who overindulged in a bit of the spirits and had an unfortunate encounter with gravity. Two minutes of red lights and tinnitus-inducing siren noise later and we pulled up to the scene to see two or three of the local gendarmes playing 'giddy-yup' on a guy thrashing about on the ground. Juuuust lovely...

Now I must tell you about one of the slickest inventions that has ever graced the world of crime fighting and EMS. It is called the Spit Sock. It looks like a small fine-mesh fabric laundry bag with an elastic collar around its opening, and it is fitted over the head of a person who has decided they are going to empty every last drop of spittle from their salivary glands on whomever happens to be in range. The elastic is just tight enough to keep the sock in place, despite the most aggressive attempts at shaking it loose, yet it isn't so tight that it strangles the person; although just by wearing the Spit Sock, the person probably deserves to be strangled anyway. A bonus for our viewing pleasure is that when the offending spit-hurler attempts to launch their loogie at us, it sticks to the side of the sock, and eventually settles back onto the face of said spitter. Priceless. Our gentleman had...oh...half a dozen of the said spit bombs stuck to his face and forehead. Continuing on...

This guy had downed WAY too many adult beverages during his stay at the club house, and the staff at the bar called 911 when they saw the dude trying to head to his car and drive home. The responding officers arrived before Sir Spits-a-Lot could drive away, and the cops were going to be all nice to him and try to find him a ride home, rather than haul his soggy ass to jail. Fine. Great. How nice of them. Instead, Larry Loogie decides he's going to take a swing at one of the officers.

Baaaad decision. The fight, as they say, is on.

Guess who won?...

So after he has some fancy silver bracelets placed on his wrists, Mike Tyson decides he will get out of this situation by faking shortness of breath. By holding his breath. Which works. For about 30 seconds. Then he gasps breathing again, and realizes that no one is falling for his act. So now he's even more pissed off, and the expletives start flying like hot water from Old Faithful. F--- you this, and Mother F----er that, and so on and so on. A couple more snot bombs are launched, which promptly land back on his face. Ha. And who's to say the sock didn't get adjusted so that the bombs didn't get smeared a little.

OK...a lot.

I didn't do it. Really I didn't.

Anyways, the diatribe against me, my mother and the rest of my lineage continued all the way to the ED. I tried asking him his name, and all I got was 'Fuck you'. So, in the computer I typed First Name: Fuck

Last Name: You

"Sir, do you have a middle name?"

"Fuck you, asshole".

Middle Name: Asshole.

"You know, there are a LOT of people in this world with your exact same name!"

*spit*......oooh....that one ended up in his eye. Oh, too bad.

He faked unconsciousness the rest of the way to the ED, which was fine by me. The nastier he got, the nicer I became. Which pissed him off even more. And got him more sputum in his eyes. Ha.

After arriving at the ED, he was no nicer to the staff there, so after a quick 'clearance for incarceration', he was off to the Grey Bar Hotel. As he rolled by on the way to the police car, I wished him a happy stay at Santa Rita.

*spit*

Ah...got the other eye.

I love my job.