Some hospitals hold wellness retreats. Some hospitals invite motivational speakers.
Ours discharged all patients and handed out scalpels.
It started when Ortho, half-joking and half-dead serious, suggested:
“We should probably clear the building. Just in case.”
Within minutes, chaos quietly bloomed.
Entire wards emptied out with military precision. Patients were wheeled out like there was a fire. Discharge summaries were forged at speeds that defied both physics and hospital safety regulations.
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Nobody knew who officially signed off. Rumors pointed at an overcaffeinated charge nurse, a distracted medical director, and an anonymous “Send All” email that HR immediately pretended not to see.
Legal bought plane tickets.
Risk Management left a note:
“If found, please forward my belongings to a nonextradition country.”
By noon, the OR hallway was barricaded with crash carts, gurneys, and one very confused visiting consultant from Endoscopy.
The first ever Hospital Scalpel Throwing Championship was officially — and catastrophically — underway.
The only three rules:
If you bleed, you file your own incident report.
If you cry, you mop the floors.
If you win, you explain it to the board.
Somewhere, written in dry-erase marker over the trauma room door:
“DO NO HARM (TO YOUR TARGETS. WALLS ARE FAIR GAME.)”
Welcome to the hospital’s darkest day of team-building. Where the specialties clash, the drywall screams, and the only survivors are the ones who throw fast — and run faster.
Disclaimer:
The Scalpel Throwing Championship described in this article is entirely fictional.
No real patients, staff, or living organisms were harmed.
Only our imaginary walls — and what remained of our professional dignity — took damage.
Please enjoy responsibly.
Orthopedic Surgery: First Blood, Zero Regrets
When the starting whistle blew (or maybe it was a flatline alarm — no one’s sure), Ortho was already standing four and a half meters from the target, scalpel clenched like a medieval battle axe.
With the reckless enthusiasm only Orthopedics can muster, they hurled the scalpel with the full kinetic energy of someone who thinks fine motor skills are a myth invented by Pediatrics.
The impact:
Target: missed entirely.
Drywall: catastrophic puncture.
Fire alarm: triggered by pure kinetic despair.
The crash cart behind the target wept softly. Someone from bureaucratic labyrinths just quietly turned around and left the building. (“Nope. Not today,” they were heard muttering.)
Meanwhile, Ortho — without blinking — high-fived themselves and declared the opening throw a “surgical strike.”
They then promptly began flexing in the reflective surface of an unplugged defibrillator.
Scorecard:
Target Hit: 0/1
Casualties: 1 section of wall, 1 crash cart wheel, 4 interns’ will to live.
Ortho’s Personal Confidence: Increased 300%.
Regrets: 0%.
This is how the Scalpel Throwing Championship truly began: Not with strategy. Not with skill. But with brute force, drywall carnage, and the unwavering belief that velocity solves everything.
Neurosurgery: Scalpel Precision or Passive Aggression?
After Orthopedics turned the first round into a drywall demolition project, Neurosurgery entered the arena like royalty descending into a riot.
Where Ortho relied on brute force, Neurosurgery brought the terrifying precision of someone who regularly pokes brains for a living.
The chief neurosurgeon — crisp scrubs, steely eyes, and a God Complex so polished it reflected light — approached the line.
He adjusted his stance. Measured the distance. Sighted the target.
And threw.
The scalpel spun like a whispered threat through the hallway — slicing the air with chilling elegance — and embedded itself dead-center into the bullseye.
No drywall was harmed. No alarms blared. The laws of physics briefly stood up and clapped.
A heavy silence fell across the OR floor. Someone (probably the intern) whispered,
“…Is that legal?”
Neurosurgery didn’t smile. Neurosurgery doesn’t need to smile. They simply retrieved the scalpel, disinfected it with 99% confidence, and walked away — leaving behind the aura of a hostile takeover.
Meanwhile, in the background, Anesthesiology began casually practicing throws — using central line IV catheters as projectiles, murmuring threats about “vascular access from across the room.”
The intern tried to hide behind a crash cart. It offered no protection.
Scorecard:
Target Hit: Bullseye, first attempt.
Property Damage: 0% (unless you count the shattered morale).
Staff Emotional Damage: Severe, permanent.
Intern Casualties: Pending.
In the scalpel throwing championship, some hospital specialties brought chaos. Neurosurgery brought consequences.
General Surgery: Veress Needles and Very Bad Ideas
Following Neurosurgery’s cold-blooded perfection, General Surgery stormed in — armed not with scalpels, but with Veress needles.
Yes. Actual Veress needles. Sharp, spring-loaded instruments designed to puncture human abdomens… now being casually hurled through a hospital hallway at duct-taped crash carts.
It was a decision fueled by caffeine, arrogance, and sheer surgical stubbornness.
General Surgery lined up. Tension built.
Someone (probably Anesthesiology) muttered:
“What could possibly go wrong?”
Answer: Everything.
On the first throw, the Veress needle arced majestically through the stale hospital air — and impaled itself, dead center, into an oxygen tank.
Hissing gas immediately began venting from the puncture site like a dying steampunk dragon. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled crowd. Someone screamed:
“SHIELD THE INTERN!”
Undeterred, General Surgery tried again.
Second throw: The Veress needle sailed into an open elevator shaft and disappeared into legend.
Third throw: It embedded itself with perfect surgical precision… into the “Hand Hygiene Week” bulletin board.
Risk Management was seen writing resignation letters on the spot.
Meanwhile, Anesthesiology — still warming up — began sharpening their central lines and whispering tactical plans.
Scorecard:
Target Hit: 0/3
Infrastructure Damage: Catastrophic.
Workplace Safety Violations: Approximately all of them.
Veress Needles: 2 lost forever, 1 now part of building architecture.
General Surgery proved that when you give precision weapons to adrenaline addicts, someone’s going to puncture reality itself.
Still breathing? Great. Time to dive deeper into the glorious chaos:
Click, gasp, laugh… and maybe question your entire career trajectory just a little.
Cardiothoracic Surgery: A Scalpel is a Scalpel Until It’s a Missile
After General Surgery accidentally attempted to take down the entire hospital oxygen supply, Cardiothoracic Surgery stepped into the arena.
Silence fell. Even Anesthesiology, still casually twirling central lines, paused to watch.
These were the gods of the OR. The ones who cracked open ribs like opening a stubborn oyster and thought nothing of it.
Their weapon of choice? Not some shaky Veress needle. Not a trembling, poorly-balanced scalpel.
They brought a precision-weighted sternal saw blade, modified for aerodynamic supremacy. Custom balanced. Laser-etched with their fellowship year. Probably blessed by a rogue perfusionist.
Without a word, Cardiothoracic Surgery took their mark, calculated the exact angle for wind resistance (indoors, naturally), and launched the blade.
It soared.
Graceful. Silent. Absolutely terrifying.
It cut through the hospital hallway like a whispered threat from Death itself — and embedded a perfect 3-centimeter-wide slice through the center of the target.
Dead center. Not a millimeter off.
It was beautiful. It was horrifying. It was the first confirmed kill of a crash cart in hospital history.
Someone (likely the intern) fainted. Anesthesiology gently rolled them behind the nearest vending machine for safekeeping.
Meanwhile, Cardiothoracic Surgery simply nodded once, retrieved their blade with surgeon-like detachment, and walked away.
No words. No emotion. Just a faint scent of superiority and betadine.
Scorecard:
Target Hit: Surgical precision.
Casualties: 1 crash cart, 1 intern, 12 egos.
Safety Protocol Compliance: Negative.
Audience Trauma: Lifelong.
Cardiothoracic Surgery doesn’t miss. They simply choose what lives and what dies.
Emergency Medicine: Chaos is a Warm-Up
By the time Emergency Medicine stumbled onto the throwing line, the battlefield looked like a very creative safety violation report.
Veress needles sticking out of walls.
Sternal saw scars through bulletin boards.
An intern hiding under a rolling stretcher, clutching a broken crash cart like a shield.
Emergency Medicine felt right at home.
Wearing scrubs that hadn’t seen a laundry machine since the last natural disaster, sipping cold coffee that might’ve been from yesterday, they cracked their necks, grabbed a handful of scalpels… and didn’t even bother throwing them one by one.
No.
Emergency Medicine chucked an entire handful at once, like some caffeinated, half-broken Greek god of Minor Lacerations.
The results?
Three scalpels embedded themselves into the drywall at wildly creative angles.
One scalpel punctured an anesthesia machine that had been minding its own business.
One lodged into the back of the oxygen hissing tank (again).
One simply vanished, presumed ascended directly into hospital folklore.
There was no finesse. There was no grace.
The kind of Emergency Room energy that can intubate you, shock you, and wheel you into radiology before you even remember your name.
Meanwhile, Anesthesiology continued to warm up silently at the edges, observing the chaos with the slow smile of predators who know exactly when to strike.
Scorecard:
Target Hit: 1 (we think).
Property Damage: Critical.
Internal Bleeding (of hope): Massive.
Coffee Spilled: 3 cups, one minor lawsuit pending.
Emergency Medicine didn’t compete to win. They competed to survive — and took the rest of the hospital down with them.
Anesthesiology: Coffee Assassins in Scrubs
Finally — after the orthopedic wreckage, general surgical disasters, and Emergency Medicine’s attempt to reenact Ragnarok — Anesthesiology stepped forward.
No announcement. No intimidation. Just a slight adjustment of their grip on a coffee cup so scalding hot it could be diagnosed as a burn injury.
In one hand: A fresh, sacred, unspillable cup of coffee.
In the other: Three central line needles, casually balanced like glorified coffee stirrers.
Their mission?
Not to hit targets. Not to save the crash cart. Not to patch the gaping emotional wounds left by Orthopedics.
Their mission was simple: Destroy every other department’s coffee mugs… without spilling a single drop of their own.
They turned, narrowed their gaze, and — in one smooth, horrifyingly elegant motion — launched the three central lines at lightning speed.
Results:
One central line sliced through the “Emergency Medicine World’s Best Trauma Coffee” mug, sending coffee geysering into the ceiling tiles.
The second impaled the Orthopedic mug so hard it split in two, like brittle bone under low calcium conditions.
The third lodged itself perfectly into General Surgery’s “I Save Lives Before Breakfast” travel tumbler, causing it to spin once, vomit its contents onto the intern hiding under the crash cart, then collapse in slow, caffeinated surrender.
Because no one can have a more hilarious coffee mug than Anesthesia.
Meanwhile, Anesthesiology took a slow, victorious sip from their own cup — without spilling a single molecule.
Not a ripple. Not a tremor.
Just a silent declaration: “You will never be as composed as me.”
The crowd said nothing. Even Cardiac Surgery looked genuinely unsettled. Someone quietly whispered:
“Is this… an emotional assassination?”
Probably.
And as Anesthesiology disappeared into the shadows, the only sound was the soft drip of spilled coffee hitting the blood-smeared floor.
Scorecard:
Coffee Mug Kills: 3/3
Coffee Spilled (Self): 0 drops
Psychological Damage: Irreparable
Safety Protocol Compliance: Listed as “Theoretical”
Anesthesiology didn’t just compete. They declared war on caffeine… and won with terrifying grace.
Legends Are Written in Broken Walls and Missing Needles
When the dust finally settled, the OR walls scarred with punctures, the crash cart lying in ruins, and abandoned coffee dripping onto cracked tiles — only one thing was certain.
Anesthesiology was gone.
No fanfare. No final sip. No smug grin.
Just an empty coffee cup, still steaming faintly, left behind like a calling card.
Some say they melted into the vents. Others swear they glimpsed a shadow disappearing into the maintenance tunnels. Nobody knows for sure.
What they do know is this:
Orthopedics is still trying to patch the drywall with casting material.
General Surgery is holding a mandatory hospital safety seminar.
Emergency Medicine is blaming the interns.
Risk Management has booked one-way flights to anywhere without extradition treaties.
The crash cart… may never emotionally recover.
As for us?
We went back to work. Back to charting. Back to pretending everything was normal.
Because in the end, no matter how many crash carts you level, or coffee mugs you assassinate, the pager still beeps. The alarms still scream. And the patients still come.
That’s medicine.
Some days you are scalpel throwing. Some days you are dodging them. Most days, you just pick them up and send them to sterilization.
Ready to Join the Madness?
If reading this masterpiece about scalpel throwing made you laugh, cry, or silently diagnose yourself with a minor workplace-induced psychosis — you’re exactly the kind of human PropofLOL was built for.
Stay tuned. More surgical-grade absurdity is on the way.
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Here at PropofLOL, we don’t just survive medicine. We weaponize it — one dark roast and sarcasm-dipped scalpel at a time.
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