Katerpiller

Dear Drunk My name is Katie and I’m a healthcare worker. I take care of people when...

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 17:08:21 +0100

Dear Drunk

My name is Katie and I’m a healthcare worker. I take care of people when they’re sick or hurt, I hold their hands when they’re scared, take the extra corners out of their arms when they fall and put band-aids on boo-boos. Sometimes, when someone is really sick, I’ll even breathe for them or keep their heart pumping by pushing on their chest. I’m good like that, see.

While you’re out “enjoying” yourself on a Friday night, I can be found in your local Accident and Emergency department kindly giving up my sleep to look after sick people. In case you were wondering, by the end of my shift last night, I’d been up for 24 hours straight… and the reason, dear drunk, is this.

Before losers like you decided that a good night out ended with lying semi-conscious on the sidewalk with your eyes rolling back in your head, A&E would empty out in the early hours of the morning leaving just the sickest of sick patients in the department. This allowed us poor healthcare workers to have a break, a cup of tea and occasionally a nap. Now, because you’re selfish and stupid, this is not the case.

On a Friday and Saturday night, the majority of patients I see are:

so drunk/high on drugs they collapse in the street and inevitably, someone calls 999. If a person is intoxicated and unable to get home, the ambulance crew must take them to the hospital.
so drunk/high on drugs they walk in front of a car/spaceship/bike/train or fall down. Alcohol masks pain and so ambulance crews, unable to assess the patient properly, bring them to A&E just to be safe.
so drunk/high on drugs they get in to a fight with someone else who is equally intoxicated. Someone hits/stabs/shoots someone else and lo and behold, we have visitors. Its also worth noting that when we try and help them by stitching up their wounds, we’re met with abuse and violence.

If you weren’t so stupid and childish, you wouldn’t drink quite so much. You’d be able to walk out of the club with your shoes and knickers still in place, get a taxi/bus/train home and disappear in to the night. But, piss-head, the concept of moderation is far too advanced for you and your tiny pickled brain so listen up.

When you show up in my A&E, know that you are not my priority. You are not sick or dying, you’re drunk because you chose to be and I’m not interested. Please take a vomit bowl and find a seat out in the waiting room and be quiet. If you don’t want to wait, you’re more than welcome to go home, I don’t want to see you anyway.

When I do finally see you, its only because I have to. Please keep your hands to yourself at all times, I know I’m gorgeous and I’m very flattered but I’m not interested. Do not try and spit at me, swear at me or threaten me either, you’ll just end up thrown out of our nice warm establishment (or even arrested).

I’ll stick a big needle in your arm and dilute the alcohol in your blood just enough to make you sober enough to go home but not enough to relieve that enormous hangover you’ll have tomorrow… or in three days when your body gets done processing the booze.

When you wet yourself or throw up in your hair, don’t expect me to change you or clean you up. You’re a grown up and this is what you chose… If you have to get the tube home at 9am covered in piss and vomit, so be it. Now you know how I feel after a Friday night shift.

If nothing else, when you read about the 8 year old boy who almost died because there were no ambulances to send to him last night, know that it is your fault. The ambulance he so desperately needed was tied up scraping you, the piss soaked drunk, off the street.

Yours

Katie

Cooking with Cripples by Katie Cooper (age 21)

Tue, 19 May 2009 15:20:26 +0100

So, cripple, you’ve decided to cook.

Before we start, you need to determine which hand is functioning. Tricky, but heres a hint: its not your mangled claw.

Step 1: FORAGE! You and your stupid face will require:

White of 1 large egg

4 oz. ground almonds

2 tsp cinnamon

2 oz. caster sugar

icing sugar

Step 2: ITS TIME TO BUILD SOME MUSCLE.

Beat the egg white until its all stiff and weird (you know, until you can make big pointy bits in it n’ stuff)

Step 3: DUMP TRUCKS!

Throw everything else in to the mix (apart from the icing sugar cos thats for laters. Oooh, mystical) and mix it so its all lovely and even. You know what I mean.

Step 4: PLAY WITH YO’ BALLS

4.1 Lube your baking tray with some grease to stop yo’ balls sticking. Butter or oil is fine, hair grease/car oil is not.

4.2 Wet your grubby little paw (I’d love to say paws but you know… ) and roll the mix in to balls the size of the sweets in YO!

Step 5: ADD FIRE!

…or just a 350F oven for 15-18 minutes. The choice is yours.

Step 6: SNOW + BALLS

Let yo’ balls cool then roll them in the icing sugar so they look like snowballs.

Step 7: I believe it goes…

…omnomnomnomnom

Love and kisses

Katiekins

So whats polite here?

Sat, 16 May 2009 20:01:43 +0100

At some point, I’m going to be asking people to sponsor me for something so I can raise money for a charity thats important to me. Recently, my friends have been asking for money for things they’re doing but they’re raising the money so they can do various things for free (skydiving/trekking etc…), not because they care about the charity. I don’t want to support the charities they’ve chosen but I want them to support me and mine…

Whats the polite thing to do here?

INSTRUCT ME, INTERNETS.

"So, I get winked at just before I fall asleep and then wake up to find the winker has stolen my..."

Sat, 16 May 2009 15:24:37 +0100

“So, I get winked at just before I fall asleep and then wake up to find the winker has stolen my glasses. This is most unacceptable.”

Dear Mankle, We need to talk. I told you I wanted to walk nicely today. I asked you to coordinate...

Wed, 13 May 2009 11:03:00 +0100

Dear Mankle,

We need to talk. I told you I wanted to walk nicely today. I asked you to coordinate Foot and Leg to make that happen but I’m still waiting. I snuggled you up in your tubigrip before I paid attention to Stomach, who had been waiting patiently all night… Fairs fair, mankle, I do a lot for you. I buy you nice shoes, take you for walks, feed you ketoprofen when you cry and ensure a constant supply of fuzzy puppies to sleep on you and keep you warm. In return, you’re costing me money, wasting my time and, more importantly, giving me a silly walk. Would a little reciprocity kill you?

I’m sorry Mankle, I really am. I’ve had it with your selfish ways; I want a divorce.

Love and kisses,

P.S. I admit the labrador was a poor choice for an ankle warmer but thats no excuse for such poor behavior.