Another day another geng geng at werk!!!!

It’s a Tuesday night, and the ER is a circus of sprained ankles, broken egos, and people who’ve Googled their symptoms and decided they’re dying. Standard.

A man walks in holding a gallon-sized Ziploc bag likeeee, with reverence. Like it’s a sacred relic or a newborn child. He walks up to the triage nurse and solemnly says:

“I need this reattached.”

She peers into the bag. It’s… a hot dog. Just a regular-ass, store-brand hot dog. No blood. No fingers. Just a lonely, pale, uncooked hot dog. Sitting in the Ziploc. Looking vaguely ashamed of itself.

Nurse (deadpan): “Sir, what exactly do you want reattached?”

He whispers, “My dignity.”

Turns out he’d lost a bet with his drunk roommate a dare, and “a hot dog that looked too much like him.” He panicked and thought he’d cooked off something vital, so he scooped the hot dog into a bag and RAN to the ER.

We had to explain, as gently as possible, that he was fine. Fully intact. No dismemberment had occurred just a very vivid imagination and perhaps some deeply unresolved issues with anatomy.

He stayed for an hour, drank three apple juices, and left after asking if he could keep the hot dog “for closure.”

We gave him a sticker that said "BRAVE PATIENT."

He took five.