(no subject)
Last night a group of friend's and myself went to see The Bourne Supremacy. Although the movie was not nearly as good as the first movie, it wasn't terrible. However, the movie is not the subject of the tale of woe.
After the movie was over, our friend Han started running for shotgun (a trophy of the highest order). Being the fiercly competitive bad mamma jammas that we are, Scott and I are definitely not about to lose to a girl. This attitude precipitates much running on the part of all participants involved. However, Han--lacking the will of the warrior--did not pursue victory with the voracity that Scott and myself find ourselves compelled to in all situations. As we reach the doors, the contest is still neck and neck. Then...disaster strikes. As Scott tenderly reached toward the door of the Cordova, the unthinkable occurred. The structural integrity of the glass was insufficient to resist the supple force of Scott's feather touch. The result, of course, was an explosion of glass and blood everywhere. Undaunted by my opponents unworthy falter, I continued the contest and won the day. After basking in the spoils of my triumph for several moments, I determined that the health of my comrade may be in jeopardy, and the perhaps I should determine whether my assistance is required.
Returning, the scene was horrific. Were I performing triage, I would have passed him up for someone more likely to survive. Blood poored from his wounds in a volume that can only be described as mammoth. Seeing a fallen friend, I could only think of putting him out of his misery. Others--of what might be considered sounder mind than myself--determined that euthanasia was not the answer. Volunteering to aid our fallen fellow, Mike and I accompanied the injured to the assistance of the local emergency room. To add insult to (literal) injury, I won shotgun a second time and cackled in the face of the loser.
We took this time to retrieve a fundamental implement of all disastrous events; the digital camera. Equipped with the latest in remembrance machinery we stepped into the hallowed halls of the ER. I must say that television has warped my fragile little mind into forgetting that the emergency room is not a place littered with gunshot victims like peanuts at a ball game. I also must say I was a little disappointed.
Emergency...yeah, I guess that's us.
The helpful administrative assistant, who even smiled for the picture.
What I can only describe as "superior bandaging techniques."
In all honestly, you only ever need to injure one particular finger to make life interesting.
After the check in process was completed. Our hero was whisked away into a room of unspeakable secrecy, not unlike the KGB torture chambers of old (complete with implements of pain, and official looking people that seem really good at causing it).
The hospital staff was almost as grumpy as the gestapo when it came ot me taking pictures. Luckily I'm trained in five disciplines of Shaolin "Hidden Picture Technique" and was not deterred. Of course I am not trained in Patience-Fu and the following two hours took their toll on us.
We waited...
And waited...
And...waited...
We met some guy who stabbed himself in the ass, with an implement that was purportedly a "pencil". Mike and I were unable to visually confirm these allegations however.
Finally after days in surgery, the patient arrived, shaken and disheveled. And FINALLY we were allowed to photograph the legendary battle scars.
And just to add insult to injury, I decided to strike back at "The Man".
And finally, after a long day of killing glass doors, nothing beats extremely greasy, cheap food.
And of course, end it...
Throwing up a Viewtiful!
After the movie was over, our friend Han started running for shotgun (a trophy of the highest order). Being the fiercly competitive bad mamma jammas that we are, Scott and I are definitely not about to lose to a girl. This attitude precipitates much running on the part of all participants involved. However, Han--lacking the will of the warrior--did not pursue victory with the voracity that Scott and myself find ourselves compelled to in all situations. As we reach the doors, the contest is still neck and neck. Then...disaster strikes. As Scott tenderly reached toward the door of the Cordova, the unthinkable occurred. The structural integrity of the glass was insufficient to resist the supple force of Scott's feather touch. The result, of course, was an explosion of glass and blood everywhere. Undaunted by my opponents unworthy falter, I continued the contest and won the day. After basking in the spoils of my triumph for several moments, I determined that the health of my comrade may be in jeopardy, and the perhaps I should determine whether my assistance is required.
Returning, the scene was horrific. Were I performing triage, I would have passed him up for someone more likely to survive. Blood poored from his wounds in a volume that can only be described as mammoth. Seeing a fallen friend, I could only think of putting him out of his misery. Others--of what might be considered sounder mind than myself--determined that euthanasia was not the answer. Volunteering to aid our fallen fellow, Mike and I accompanied the injured to the assistance of the local emergency room. To add insult to (literal) injury, I won shotgun a second time and cackled in the face of the loser.
We took this time to retrieve a fundamental implement of all disastrous events; the digital camera. Equipped with the latest in remembrance machinery we stepped into the hallowed halls of the ER. I must say that television has warped my fragile little mind into forgetting that the emergency room is not a place littered with gunshot victims like peanuts at a ball game. I also must say I was a little disappointed.
Emergency...yeah, I guess that's us.
The helpful administrative assistant, who even smiled for the picture.
What I can only describe as "superior bandaging techniques."
In all honestly, you only ever need to injure one particular finger to make life interesting.
After the check in process was completed. Our hero was whisked away into a room of unspeakable secrecy, not unlike the KGB torture chambers of old (complete with implements of pain, and official looking people that seem really good at causing it).
The hospital staff was almost as grumpy as the gestapo when it came ot me taking pictures. Luckily I'm trained in five disciplines of Shaolin "Hidden Picture Technique" and was not deterred. Of course I am not trained in Patience-Fu and the following two hours took their toll on us.
We waited...
And waited...
And...waited...
We met some guy who stabbed himself in the ass, with an implement that was purportedly a "pencil". Mike and I were unable to visually confirm these allegations however.
Finally after days in surgery, the patient arrived, shaken and disheveled. And FINALLY we were allowed to photograph the legendary battle scars.
And just to add insult to injury, I decided to strike back at "The Man".
And finally, after a long day of killing glass doors, nothing beats extremely greasy, cheap food.
And of course, end it...
Throwing up a Viewtiful!