Either You Give Blood Or We Take It
Ed. Note: Dewey Billem Fivehundredbucksperhour & Howe's blood drives have sometimes had pretty poor turn-outs. I imagine this is due to the hectic, demanding nature of The Law. Either that or I work with a bunch of soulless bastards. Regardless, the e-mails announcing our quarterly exsanguination sessions have gotten somewhat, ah, "terse" as of late...
Do you know how many people in the tri-state area are in desperate need of your gift of blood?
Don't even pretend like you don't. You've gotten our e-mails. Or are you also going to feign unfamiliarity with a little concept known as "read receipt"?
So, yeah: we totally need some blood up in this joint, homes. So cough it up.
No, not literally. Unless you've got tuberculosis. And you'll notice that question 17-C on the donation questionnaire specifically addresses that particular malady.
Or at least you WOULD notice, if you bothered to show up to donate.
We offered cookies. Multiple varieties of cookies. Did chocolate chip, snickerdoodle or oatmeal-raisin coerce you into opening up a vein? Of course not.
We offered a selection of juices wide enough to make the local Stop 'n Shop's produce department manager gouge his own eyes out in shame. Perhaps with a sharpened plantain. But were any sufficiently succulent to lure you and your precious corpuscles down to conference room 813? Nooooo.
We hung posters with poignant black-and-white photos of children, all of whom needed donated blood at one point in their lives. Did these posters tug at your heartstrings? The heartstrings are connected to the artery-strings, you know. Which are, via the wonder of capillaries, connected to the vein-strings. Which are connected to a needle, a few feet of sterile tubing and a baggie. What's that? They're not?
Excuse me while I feign surprise.
Or perhaps your chest cavity does not contain a heart, merely a cruel and chilly lump of granite. Perhaps you were utterly unmoved by the photo of Baby Johnny, whose life was saved by two units of O-neg. Yeah. We can just imagine you, walking by the poster we hung above the office microwave. "Screw you, Baby Johnny!", you scoff, "You're not getting a single leukocyte outta ME!" And then you surreptitiously eat a coworker's Lean Cuisine.
You monster.
We're sick of you and your sanguinary stinginess. It's time for radical action.
Either you give blood, or we take it.
Right now, at a Red Cross compound in an undisclosed-yet-heavily-guarded location, we're building the future. And it is quick with an iodine swab.
Our first group of highly-trained phleboto-ninjas will be unleashed upon the world in mere weeks. And when they are, you - and your red cells - had better watch out.
Equally at ease in an ill-fitting lab coat or a traditional shinobi shozoku, the phleboto-ninja is versatile. He is fast as the rushing stream, agile as the cat on the prowl. In the time it takes most allied health technicians to ask, "Yo, Rick, we got any more #16s?", the phleboto-ninga can locate a suitable vein, prep the skin surface, deftly insert a needle AND single-handedly dispatch a cadre of armed attackers.
The phleboto-ninja's hands have been trained in modern venipuncture technique. His soul has been steeped in feudal Japanese tradition.
And make no mistake about it, he's going to drain your sorry ass.
The phlebotomist of the past said, "Okay, this may sting a bit." The phleboto-ninja says nothing. He does not betray his presence in such a blatant fashion. By the time you notice the sting, he will have vanished... along with a still-warm bag of your vital fluids. Within minutes, he will place his conquest within a ceremonial ice chest; it will then be reverently presented to his shogun/regional Red Cross collection center. And you will remain completely oblivious to his actions... that is, until you notice the freshly-applied sticker on your lapel: "BE NICE TO ME! I GAVE BLOOD TODAY (ALBEIT IN A TOTALLY INVOLUNTARY FASHION)".
It's your choice. You can take the noble path, conveniently available in conference room 813 from 8:00 AM - 1:00 PM. Or you can take the dishonorable one... sitting at your desk, munching on a snack cake, the gift of life hoarded in your miserly veins.
In the past, we would've told you to choke on your own Krimpet. But that was the past.
Go on, lick the butterscotch frosting of selfish decadence from your fingers. Go about your daily routine. We'll be watching... and waiting.
Will the strike come while you're in the elevator? Walking to the copier? Holding court at the water cooler? You'll never know. Oh, there will be a sting... the sting of your own greed being forcibly extracted. There will be a faint feeling of light-headedness, perhaps the ethereal whisper of jika-tabi on linoleum. At this point, you may wish to hit the vending machine for a can of fruit punch and some Chips Ahoy. Because whether or not you're aware of it, you've just become a hero.
Don't even pretend like you don't. You've gotten our e-mails. Or are you also going to feign unfamiliarity with a little concept known as "read receipt"?
So, yeah: we totally need some blood up in this joint, homes. So cough it up.
No, not literally. Unless you've got tuberculosis. And you'll notice that question 17-C on the donation questionnaire specifically addresses that particular malady.
Or at least you WOULD notice, if you bothered to show up to donate.
We offered cookies. Multiple varieties of cookies. Did chocolate chip, snickerdoodle or oatmeal-raisin coerce you into opening up a vein? Of course not.
We offered a selection of juices wide enough to make the local Stop 'n Shop's produce department manager gouge his own eyes out in shame. Perhaps with a sharpened plantain. But were any sufficiently succulent to lure you and your precious corpuscles down to conference room 813? Nooooo.
We hung posters with poignant black-and-white photos of children, all of whom needed donated blood at one point in their lives. Did these posters tug at your heartstrings? The heartstrings are connected to the artery-strings, you know. Which are, via the wonder of capillaries, connected to the vein-strings. Which are connected to a needle, a few feet of sterile tubing and a baggie. What's that? They're not?
Excuse me while I feign surprise.
Or perhaps your chest cavity does not contain a heart, merely a cruel and chilly lump of granite. Perhaps you were utterly unmoved by the photo of Baby Johnny, whose life was saved by two units of O-neg. Yeah. We can just imagine you, walking by the poster we hung above the office microwave. "Screw you, Baby Johnny!", you scoff, "You're not getting a single leukocyte outta ME!" And then you surreptitiously eat a coworker's Lean Cuisine.
You monster.
We're sick of you and your sanguinary stinginess. It's time for radical action.
Either you give blood, or we take it.
Right now, at a Red Cross compound in an undisclosed-yet-heavily-guarded location, we're building the future. And it is quick with an iodine swab.
Our first group of highly-trained phleboto-ninjas will be unleashed upon the world in mere weeks. And when they are, you - and your red cells - had better watch out.
Equally at ease in an ill-fitting lab coat or a traditional shinobi shozoku, the phleboto-ninja is versatile. He is fast as the rushing stream, agile as the cat on the prowl. In the time it takes most allied health technicians to ask, "Yo, Rick, we got any more #16s?", the phleboto-ninga can locate a suitable vein, prep the skin surface, deftly insert a needle AND single-handedly dispatch a cadre of armed attackers.
The phleboto-ninja's hands have been trained in modern venipuncture technique. His soul has been steeped in feudal Japanese tradition.
And make no mistake about it, he's going to drain your sorry ass.
The phlebotomist of the past said, "Okay, this may sting a bit." The phleboto-ninja says nothing. He does not betray his presence in such a blatant fashion. By the time you notice the sting, he will have vanished... along with a still-warm bag of your vital fluids. Within minutes, he will place his conquest within a ceremonial ice chest; it will then be reverently presented to his shogun/regional Red Cross collection center. And you will remain completely oblivious to his actions... that is, until you notice the freshly-applied sticker on your lapel: "BE NICE TO ME! I GAVE BLOOD TODAY (ALBEIT IN A TOTALLY INVOLUNTARY FASHION)".
It's your choice. You can take the noble path, conveniently available in conference room 813 from 8:00 AM - 1:00 PM. Or you can take the dishonorable one... sitting at your desk, munching on a snack cake, the gift of life hoarded in your miserly veins.
In the past, we would've told you to choke on your own Krimpet. But that was the past.
Go on, lick the butterscotch frosting of selfish decadence from your fingers. Go about your daily routine. We'll be watching... and waiting.
Will the strike come while you're in the elevator? Walking to the copier? Holding court at the water cooler? You'll never know. Oh, there will be a sting... the sting of your own greed being forcibly extracted. There will be a faint feeling of light-headedness, perhaps the ethereal whisper of jika-tabi on linoleum. At this point, you may wish to hit the vending machine for a can of fruit punch and some Chips Ahoy. Because whether or not you're aware of it, you've just become a hero.
Labels: Best Of, The Compleat Thumbscrew
posted by thumbscre.ws at
12/10/2006
4 Comments:
If you're so committed to the greater good then why don't you just STOP with the fucking BRILLIANCE for five minutes so that those of us who are not so much with the writing skills but have, oh, pledged to pay back a student loan for the rest of our natural lives as a testament to our one-time faith in said writing skills can stop cursing you? Is that really too much to ask?
I used to run my office blood drive and OH how I wish I had something like this. "butterscotch frosting of selfish decadence" indeed.
I love this.
My only contribution to blood drives (besides blood) is an advertising campaign stolen from some other drive.
"The average woman loses X pints of blood during her lifetime due to menstruation. The average man loses none. Step up, boys."
DO the phleboto-ninjas understand that you cannot expect people under 110 lbs to give blood? *looks worriedly around*
This was hilarious.
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