ATLANTA, GA – “Don’t touch that!” snapped the surgical tech, referring to anything and everything in the OR at once. Although he was standing in the center of the room, in what he believed to be a veritable desert of things to contaminate, the MS3 had failed to realize the simple truth of his situation.
According to intraoperative reports, in a blunder of epic proportions he replied, “Oh don’t worry, I won’t.” The tech, Erin Heimdall, is said to have had a haze come across her aquiline eyes, not unlike those of a veteran soldier who had seen things that not even Roy from Blade Runner could imagine. Fighting her better urge to simply remove this impudent stain of a human from the OR (and perhaps life in general), colleagues say she met his bravado with a “doubtful look” above her surgical mask.
His audacity to pursue a surgical career had doomed him from the start to several years of being considered gross; inherently filthy and accompanied by a choir of flies that hummed hymnals of his pestilence. As the MS3 struggled to keep his bouffant cap down against the wavy stink lines that he emanated in Pig-Pen fashion, the inexplicably buff med rep that towered beside him let out what he later eloquently described to Gomerblog as “a big bouquet of poopsy-daisies,” which we understand to mean flatulence.
Surgical instruments were hurled with scary accuracy as the student scapegoat fled through the double doors, like rotten tomatoes towards an unfunny clown. He punctuated his stint at acting the part of a surgeon by running into the freshly scrubbed attending, who delivered a merciful coup de grace.
Onlookers described the victim as wearing shabby scrubs that gave him a diaper butt, “an appropriate uniform given his status as a baby.” His gloves, intertwined and suspiciously clean, might as well as have been brown the second he clumsily shoved two inadequately sterilized hands into them. His last words were said to have been, “Maybe I’ll try family medicine…” C’est la vie.
