Note to boyfriends: Do not think for a moment that your ghettolicious street fabulous bulllshit is going to get you anything besides snide derision from me. I will go over, I will look at your road pizza girlfriend. I will stand there and pick my nose for a loooong minute. Then say something along the lines of "yeah, she looks pretty fu*ked up, you better get someone to look at that" and stroll out. I am neither impressed nor intimidated by your bullshit gang sign throwing, psuedomasculine, pissant posing. If you want to impress me, put a damned shirt on, speak english, or better yet, pipe down and wait your freaking turn. This is not Burger King. We do not make it your way. This is an emergency center, and believe it or not, we are professional grade. Unless you have an MD, PA, or RN behind your name, I do not give a rat's ass what you think the course of treatment should be. I do not care how bad it looks; we are not going to stitch those pit bull bites. I don't care how uncomfortable you are, we are not going to take off that C-collar until we know that that 2mm C2 anterior displacement and subluxation is just positional artifact.
And no amount of trying to flex your muscles, or giving me the evil eye, or curling your lip is going to make me shudder. First off; I am a lot bigger than you. Second off, I have fought and won fights with Marines bigger than you. Third; that sheriff sitting over there is former army, carries a .44 magnum S&W, and owes me for spotting him for lunch.
Did I mention that gangbangers (and wannabes) tip like shit?
We now return you to your regularly scheduled reality.