I, Whiskey, Do Not Condone Being Used as an Anesthetic

Look, I know you’re in a bad spot. You’re seriously injured, likely stranded. Maybe you’ve got a compound fracture that needs to be reset or a limb that’s infected and needs to be amputated before it goes septic. But, before things go any further, I want to be completely upfront about this: I, Whiskey, do not condone being used as an anesthetic.

I did not ask to be scrubbed in on this MacGyver-like surgery. Normally, I’m up for pretty much anything. Except this. This is way out of my jurisdiction.

If you’ve broken out in a feverish sweat, are helplessly lying on the ground, and need someone else to bring my bottle to your lips, you don’t need a Magic 8 Ball to know: “Outlook not so good.”

Sorry, I’m just being real with you.

This is not a simple switcheroo situation like when you go to a restaurant, order a Coke, and they ask, “Is Pepsi okay?” If a hospital runs out of anesthetic, they don’t ask around to see if anyone’s got some whiskey.

I blame movies and TV shows for my misrepresentation. The way they tell it, you’d think being an analgesic was my primary purpose. Have you ever seen a whiskey advertisement that promotes my use for surgery? Exactly.

If you want to get loose and have some rowdy fun, call John Barleycorn. I’ll pick up every time. If you have a friggin’ bone sticking out of your body, please don’t call me. Like the drug dealer from Pulp Fiction, Lance, I’ll pretend that I don’t know you and that you’re a prank caller.

Why does everyone always seem to have me on hand at times like this? Next time you’re packing, do us both a favor: put down the bottle of hooch and pack the tiny bottle of painkillers.

Am I better than nothing? Possibly, but whatever good I might do is going to be inadequate at best. Having a swig of whiskey as your official pre-op is like holding an umbrella in a hurricane. And your umbrella is about to get blown inside out and violently ripped out of your hands by category 5 winds.

My apologies, I don’t mean to scare you.

I know people refer to me as “liquid courage,” but this is too much. If you were trying to build up the nerve to introduce yourself to a stranger, I’d happily loosen your lips and help you feel more confident. THIS AIN’T THAT. I’m going to hit you with a truth as harsh as someone’s first-ever shot of firewater: there isn’t enough whiskey on earth to provide the amount of courage you need right now.

In fact, you don’t need courage. You need a hospital. You need a team of medical professionals. You need proper anesthetic. All you’ve got is someone’s faux-leather belt that you’re going to have to bite down on for sweet mercy and hope that your teeth don’t shatter and explode out of your head.

I’m sorry. I’m not trying to freak you out. I’m just being realistic. You need more than I can provide. If you’d just had a long day at work and wanted to put your feet up and relax, I would be right there with you. But people are going to have to hold you down like you’re a hysterical dog or cat getting its nails trimmed at the vet.

After this, you won’t be able to bear the sound of a carrot snapping or the sight of someone carving turkey without having flashbacks so vivid that you’ll wish you still had a belt wedged between your chompers.

I’m clearly frightening you, sorry.

When people talk about having a drink to “ease the pain,” they don’t mean it in a literal sense for medical purposes. The best case scenario is that the pain becomes too much for your physical body and then your brain, trying to shield you from the agony, short circuits your nervous system and you pass out.

Sorry, I’m making things worse again.

I want this even less than you do. I know I’ve got a tough image, but I’m actually quite sensitive. I don’t have the constitution to witness, let alone be a part of, the hack job you’re about to experience.

I mean, I feel faint when I see someone with a nosebleed for Pete’s sake! And this is going to be much worse than a nosebleed. Much, much worse.

Sorry, I just don’t think that lying to you is going to help in any way.

Why couldn’t you have needed me for something else? If you were cold, I could have provided a pleasant, tingly, warming sensation. If you needed a funny safe word, you could have used me. Heck, I even make a good addition to a barbeque sauce.

But being used as a makeshift anesthetic? I’m meant to help make a Hot Toddy not be called upon to do the heavy lifting in an impromptu E.R.

Okay, okay. You can use me as an antiseptic to clean the wound. I concede that much. But, please, don’t use me as an anesthetic.

Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And be prepared to wake up with a hangover.