Warning: May be unsuitable for anyone
Danger to contented dining
Okay, so here’s a hypothetical
Let’s say that you are snowmobiling up in the northern woods of Minnesota. And let’s say that you are speeding. And driving recklessley. On private property. Let’s just say you are drunk off your ass as well. Oh. And let’s say you are a complete and utter fucknut. Now, let’s pretend you have a buddy, and that buddy just had a serious accident.
Now remember. You are a fucknut. Not just any fucknut. You are a snowmobiler. You call snowmobiling a “sport”. This is when, not even the biggest slackjawed pud pulling NASCAR fan calls it a sport. They look at you and wonder what the fuck went wrong.
Wait a second. Look in the mirror you dip shit. Dear god, what the fuck is that you are wearing? You stupid fuckin 12:1 fuel/oil ratio reeking mouth breather, do you see yourself? Let me let you in on a secret. It’s fucking ugly. It all came about back in 1972, when some ingrown asshair was making an attempt at autofelatio and missed, instead shoving his head up his ass. The doctor, in an attempt to discover where the asshole ended and the head started, administered a radioctive enema. The resulting acne-like rash on the asswipe’s head was a flourescent pink, and his dandruf took on a flourescent green tone. The hoot of it all is, this other snowmobiler was in the waiting room waiting for treatment for a Rottweiler felching accident. He found the colors fetching. The designers at Polaris put out an outfit out on April fools, just for fucking shits and giggles. It turns out it accents your sloped fucking foreheads, and you eat it up.
Now you go out in public wearing this shit, in some strange delusional haze you think it’s manly. Let me let you in on a secret. The manly models you see in those snowmobile magazines DO NOT look like you! The only reason the models look cold is that THEIR SKIN IS CRAWLING at the thought of what they are wearing. YOU, on the other hand, look like some teens with fluorescent spray paint vandalized a fucking walrus! You then proceed to amass as much alcohol into your liver as a Sterno chewing street bum, just so the burning of your corneas from staring at those colors eases just ever so slightly.
Then you drink some more. This is a “sport” after all, and you’ve built up a thirst. On weekends you train by speed changing the digital cable channels with the remote while you have the window open. All while attempting to consume even more alcohol.
So you’ve trained. You are ready for the big time. Your pal just hit a power pole that made his sled spin and throw him off like an oversized pinball flipper. This buddy, the one you were just drinking with, the one you are staying with, the one who is on this trip with you, then gets slammed at no less than thirty miles an hour into the corner of a shed. His helmet is ripped off, his boot thrown fifty feet, his body comes to rest limp. Face down. In a snow bank.
Do you:
A: Ride off. You will attempt to find your way back through the chain of lakes and trails to the resort you were staying at more than ten miles away.
B: Ride off, but take the trail next to the road, to the resort you were staying at, more than ten miles away. Once there, contact authorities.
C: Go back to the bar you were just at (It’s only 100 yards away) and contact the authorities, then get back to your buddies side.
D: Drive the 80 feet to the cabin with the loud music and the lights on, ask for their help.
E: Run the 60 feet to the resort’s office, contact the authorities, run back to your pal’s side.
Well of course the answer is none of the above. Since you all know, this isn’t hypothetical. I knew that no member of the SDMB is the inbred discussed here. The phone lines have yet to be strung out to the trailer park where these Neanderthals dug a cave. But. If you are dying of curiosity, the answer is, of course, F.
F: Don’t even check on your friend. Decide you can find your way back to the resort over the lake. Then get hopelessly lost. Ask some people ice fishing how to get there. When they tell you that if you aren’t familiar with the trail, a better route at night would be to take the trail next to the road. Take their advice, but don’t bother to tell them that your pal is either dead or dying up at the resort. Don’t worry, they are heading in in five or so minutes anyway and will wonder why a snowmobile is lying on it’s side in the driveway. (But you didn’t know that, did you?)
They will find your buddy there. You can go back to the resort you were staying at and place a call. It doesn’t matter that you will tell them the wrong location. It doesn’t matter that the call will come 40 minutes after we made the call. It doesn’t matter at all, you see, the decision you made 40 or more minutes earlier sealed the fate of that fifty year old father. But you probably knew that.
Here’s what you didn’t know.
Choice A, sixty feet away, the owner of the resort. She is a certified E.M.T. and she has most the equipment any ambulance would have, short of paddles and drugs. She also has a satellite phone. Choice B, eighty feet away. A police officer with E.M.T. training, a first responder with a lapsed cert, and two guys trained in first aid. One cell phone that is still managing a signal.
You are the vilest, cheapest, lowest form of scum that I can imagine. You LEFT him. TO DIE. I can’t imagine anyone being LESS of a man. Hell, less of a human. You selfish, uncaring prick. You didn’t even come back to be at your buddies side after you called the cops! There were no fucking FOOTPRINTS! You didn’t even walk over to check on him! Had you not called 911, we may have thought he became separated, or was maybe alone. By calling 911, we know, it confirms beyond the fact that you own a snowmobile, that you belong on the festering underbelly of society. You even told the bartender at the other resort. How the fuck you would even do that, I have no clue. It would be like telling someone face to face that you have no penis and you give your mother analingus. Why would you let people know you were that level of a man?
Less than five minutes after your pal was found; a C collar was on, a back board strapped on, and compressions started. We gave him CPR for forty-five fucking minutes. I held the mask on your pals face as we squeezed air into his lungs. With each aspiration a mist of alcohol laden blood puffed up into the air from his eyeball, until the room smelled like black olives (I have no idea why blood and booze smells like this). We did not give up. My pants and jacket had his blood all over, yet I had no idea who this man was. We did not give up. Hell, I even checked his arm for rigormortis twenty minutes into it, but we kept on going. The chances are he died on impact. But, if he had a chance, it was with 2 EMTs, a first responder, and me. I did what you didn’t. I stuck with him. I stuck with him until I held the foot end of the board as we loaded his body bag into the ambulance.
You shoulda been there.
