Sure, procrastination has gotten me into trouble before. For example, I was over at a friend’s house last week, and suddenly his uncle screamed. We turned around – I much more slowly – to see that Uncle Leroy had managed to sever his left hand with a toaster and a tortilla. (“It was very stale,” was Uncle Leroy’s defense. I don’t believe him; who’s ever heard of a stale toaster?) My friend told me to dial 911 immediately. I looked over at him, then at Uncle Leroy. I shrugged. “Well, let’s see what happens. I mean, we might be able to save the paramedics a trip. On a scale of one to ten, with four being the highest and twelve being the lowest, how much does it hurt?”
My friend stared at me and blinked. “Nineteen!” Uncle Leroy screamed.
“See, he’s delusional,” my friend cried, waving his arms as though he were directing two 747s into a head-on collision. “Call 911, now!”
“No, that made perfect sense to me,” I replied.
While Uncle Leroy writhed about on the floor, my friend and I argued over the necessity – or lack thereof – of dialing 911. He made some good points, but ultimately I convinced him that we really didn’t need to bother the paramedics right now. I mean, there was a Rolling Stones concert going on downtown. (Turns out we didn’t have anything to worry about; Mick Jagger’s heart didn’t give out till seven minutes after the show.)
In the end, Uncle Leroy was able to stop the bleeding with his toupee, drive himself to the hospital, and seek medical attention just in time to be ridiculed by the entire Boston-area medical community. He now has a prosthesis and lives in a small, padded room, only addressing people if they call his iPhone and ask for Seamus. I hear that he will be hosting a reality TV show when he “gets out.” As for my friend, he hasn’t returned my phone calls. I guess I couldn’t have called 911 after all, since he apparently doesn’t have a phone.
Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical.