The ER at the Seventh Circle Of Hell Hospital is state-of-the-art 80 years ago architecture, with 5 seconds ago state of the art practitioners.
But some - okay way too many - of our visitors are simply Neanderthal @$$holes.
So some small number of months into my then budding career, Doctor Captain Kirk is the designated King of the Plebes, the most experienced 4th year resident non-board-certified ER MD in charge of various less-experienced docs.
Shortly after start of another glorious night shift in Fun City, paramedics deliver unto us Mr. Prince. His royal lineage is apparent, as he's wearing the Royal Gold Robe of Backboard, and the Most Excellent Mantle Of The C-Collar. And given his absolutely blueblood pedigree, in this case, probably mostly either Johhny Walker Blue blood, or perhaps Bombay Sapphire blue blood, but in any event, definitely 86-proof, he deigns to speak to us lesser mortals in the universal language of our local royalty, by greeting all and sundry doctors and nurses as "motherf*****s."
Then, in case we don't understand his meaning, he switches back and forth from English to Spanish to Drunkish, but peppered with frequent and liberal sprinklings of F and MF bombs, which, in a curious linguistic trait worthy of neurological and psychological investigation, is the only word of English the Egregiously Polluted Drunkaholic ESL student can retain with flawless presentation and enunciation, in 100% of documented cases.
Whereupon, Doctor Captain Kirk dons his cape and goes to work.
He's already at the head of the bed, ready to do his baseline exam on Mr. Prince, with a view to clearing his C-spine, etc. just like the last 5,000 traumas he's done in 3 1/2 years of residency. But Mr. Prince is apparently the Official 1,000,000th F-Bomber, and has just won Doctor Captain Kirk's Special Attention, delivered thusly:
Doctor Captain Kirk, no tiny man he, leans over the patients head and shoulders, grasps the C-collar firmly with both open hands, and from about 8 inches above Mr. Prince's face, gives him THE WORD.
I've taken care of you drunk @$$holes for 4 years, and I've had enough of your stupid $#!^. You may be hurt, and we're going to help you. But what we're not going to do is listen to your drunken ranting, or tolerate your filthy backtalk for one more minute. So just lay there, answer my questions, let us do our jobs, and
Until you can act like a goddamned human being, don't say another word. We're busy, and we don't have time for another minute of your obnoxious shit.
We're all sick of it. So just shut it.You got that??"
Whereafter Mr. Prince squeaked out the most contrite, humble, and nigh inaudible
"Yes" ever uttered, and proceeded to conspicuously shut up and let us get to work.
I know this because Seventh Circle Of Hell Hospital has no doors, just curtains for each cubicle, so from every corner of the ER, Doctor Captain Kirk's Straw-That-Broke-The-Camel's-Back monologue has echoed off the walls, and swear to Buddha, I can hear the fists of 20 nurses throughout the department pumping skyward, as they're all telepathically screaming "YEEEESSSSS! YEEEESSSS! YEEEEEEESSSSSSS!!!!!!! and doing the ER Happy Dance right on the spot.
One of my co-workers turns to me and confesses, "I've been wanting to give that speech for 4 months."
Only the absolutely typical way-too-soul-crushingly-busy patient load, and state laws against vandalism, prevent us from gang-rushing Doctor Captain Kirk, carrying him around the ER on our shoulders, and having his face graven in the stone walls of the hospital entry beside the statues of Galen and Hippocrates.
Best. Bedside. Manner. Ever.