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In This Issue

• First Aid Failure
• A Recipe for Delicious Choke-O Puffs
• Senior Giving '06 to Fund Expansion
• Letters to the Feditor
• When That All-Night Nominee Still Only Gets a C
• Less Well-Known Choking Placards
• Sexual Perversion in Legoland
• Drink-Or-Treat!
• Minutes from the Debate Between Yes and No
• Silly Catchphrase Spreads Like Plague
• How Fight Club Ruined My Teenhood
• The Green Bodice of My Love
• Can't You Smell That Smell?
• Not Your Average Science Fair Project
• The Adventures of Snakey the Snake
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 21.3

Michael Bredin

I am a great person with many accomplishments and talents.  While I think anyone should count him or herself lucky to be in my presence, there are a few situations where my company may not actually be desirable.  For instance, if you are choking, I pray to god you aren't trapped somewhere with me.  You'll die in my arms and then everything will get awkward.  Your family might ask about your last words, and I'll have to tell them that, in between the gurgling and everything, you were asking me to just cut it out and let you die in peace.

    You see, I have tried and failed to complete first aid training several times in my life.  While many of us might not be sure what we would do when some one gets hurt, I have learned, conclusively, that I will fuck up and inadvertently kill some one.  At least, this is the most likely scenario according to my old scoutmasters.

    One of my earliest attempts to learn first aid was in the Boy Scouts of America, of which, somehow, I was an active member until 9th grade.  You might look at me now and say "Sam, you hate the outdoors and you're not a self-loathing homosexual- how could you have been a Boy Scout?"  Well, in truth, I quit the scouts because I finally realized they're all dicks.  All of them.  I also quit because I was getting nowhere without my first aid merit badge.  I must have tried to get that badge at least three times, and I'm pretty sure I buried the shameful memories of my failures because I can only recall the grizzled scoutmaster hanging his head in disappointment.  Or maybe he was just passing out from the tourniquet I tied around his carotid artery.  

    I figured that quitting the Boy Scouts would put an end to my embarrassing adventures in lifesaving.  I was wrong.  My high school felt it was appropriate for everyone to undergo a certain amount of first aid training.  I can see the logic in this, as more and more young people are playing the pass out game and winning.  Anyway, they took our PE class and turned us into lean, mean, Heimlich-maneuvering machines. Except for me.

    First rule of lifesaving: if the victim can tell you he is choking, he is lying through his filthy, clogged-up throat.  People who are really choking can't speak.  They're supposed to make the universal gesture for "seriously I'm fucking choking over here", which is that little throat-grabby thing people do when they can't breathe.

   Rule number two: even if the victim can't respond, ask if he or she is choking.  We practiced our lifesaving skills on a blue plastic dummy, and before administering first aid, we always had to go through the motions of asking an inanimate object if anything was wrong.  "ARE YOU OK?" we would inquire before beating on its chest or shoving our hands down its plastic throat. 

    Rule number three: lifesaving is not a gentle art.  Good CPR is hard CPR.  As I learned, breaking somebody's ribs is an unfortunate consequence, not the goal.  When practicing my technique, I told my partners the cracking sound meant it was working.  This is when the counselors removed me from PE and decided I was better off playing with dull scissors and cotton balls.

    Rule number four: do not attempt to administer first aid if you are not confident in your abilities.  This is my favorite rule for two reasons.  First, it exempts me from any responsibility I might have to save my fellow human beings, for my lifesaving skills are poor.  Second, the seasoned lifesaver can pretty much play God.  Let's say you're a paramedic but also a bigoted Protestant and you're out with your WASPy spouse at some golf course.  Let's say, further, that somebody else hits a golf ball into the mouth of a Catholic priest and he starts choking.  Guess what?  You're under absolutely no obligation to help the papist bastard if you feign a lapse of confidence in your knowledge or technique.  Conversely, let's say you're back at the same golf course and some fancy CEO starts choking on a cigar that he lit with the insurance compensation for three dozen migrant workers who were injured in a tragic tractor-trailer accident.  As he chokes, he offers money to any man who can save him.  Make sure to wait before responding, as (a) he might raise the reward as he gets closer to his death and (b) he's not officially choking until he can't speak.  Once the CEO is thoroughly gagging on the cigar, feel free to save his life and pocket the reward.  Did I mention those migrant workers were Catholic? They had it coming.

    In summation, never trust me with your life.  Even if I could save it, I wouldn't, because I don't resuscitate obnoxious people.