Hot Coffee and a Lawsuit To Go, Please

Well, I am sitting in a hotel room in Greensboro, North Carolina, on a beautiful Saturday morning, with a bag of ice on my right knee, typing this between piteous groans of pain. Is 'piteous' a word? Never mind. Pity me, I'm hurtin'.

As a recently-elected Deputy Grand Poobah of the Knights of Columbus, my council sent me to this big confabulation, oops, I mean "Organizational Meeting" at the airport Marriott in Greensboro, along with my Grand Poobah, so that we can get liquored up, oops, I mean so that we can learn what is required of us as officers of the KofC.

Drove out yesterday, quite a nice drive since they finished the bypass between Wilson and Raleigh, only about a 2-hour drive all told. Got the air conditioning fixed on the ol' Chevy, so the ride was comfortable. Got in about 3 p.m. and checked into the hotel.

I used to travel for a living - a 'Road Warrior' as they say - to the tune of six days a week and 125,000 miles per year. I lived at Marriotts, and as such, I earned their 'platinum' status many times over. That just means free perks and so forth, upgrades to nicer rooms, whatever. My status, even a year and some months after my last say at a Marriott, lives on - so I got treated well when I checked in.

This morning, I got up and went downstairs in search of coffee - hoping to quaff a gallon or so before our meeting began at 8:30. As luck would have it, I ran into my Grand Poobah and his wife, and he asked me to pour him a cuppa joe and meet him in the lobby, since he had to run back upstairs for something.

The coffee kiosk was hidden in the gift shop cupboard behind the main desk, so I had to wedge myself in there and fight eleventy-dozen other Knights for the right to pour myself couple of cups of coffee. Mostly old guys, I had no trouble knocking them down and trampling them. I went to a nearby table in the lobby to dose my coffee with White Death Number One (processed white sugar) and put those slidy cardboard coffee heat-reduction thingies on, and lids. The coffee was hot, hot, hot. Burning my hands, it was.

I got mine on ok, but when I went to put the slidy thing on my Grand Poobah's cup, it caught on the bottom of the cup and I spilt it all down the front of me.

Wow. This is REALLY HOT COFFEE! Oh, pain, pain, pain, pain. Yowza. Burnin' House of Love and Mother of Pearl. This hurts.

I could feel the blister start down my right leg immediately. I mean, you can tell when you're burned and not just surprised and wet and hot. Not that it happens to me a lot, but still, you don't forget.

A lady from the hotel came right over and started mopping me off with a rag - that made it worse, it pressed the red-hot pant leg right up against the rapidly-developing wound. But she was trying to help. She started offering to get me a new cuppa joe - I'm telling her to nevermind the coffee, I need to be gettin' myself to the hospital, toot sweet. She insists on getting me a replacement cuppa joe, and goes off in search of it.

In the meantime, I gather my shattered wits and begin to struggle towards the elevator. My Grand Poobah comes out of that elevator just as I'm trying to go in, he wants to know where his coffee is. I tell him that I'm wearing it, and I'm going to my room now. He wants to know if I'm going to come back down for the meeting. I say I'm going to drive myself over to the local emergency room. He asks if I'm sure - the meeting is really important. I refrain from shaking this stiff's head like a maraca and just get on the elevator.

I get up to my room, strip, and grab the ice bucket. OK, I shoulda put some kinda pants on before hobbling down to the ice machine to fill up the bucket. Still, you'd think people never saw a set of bare legs and y-fronts before.

The hotel security guy came up, offered his condolences, looked at my red blotchy leg and suggested some first-aid cream, which he went off in search of. The hotel manager called and offered his condolences, and offered to have a breakfast sent up to me, on the house. I told him I was afraid I'd end up wearing it.

So here I am, sitting in my hotel room, with a bag of ice on my right thigh. I just examined my leg - yeah, I got a nice blister going on. That really was some hot coffee. Oh well.

Now, you know what I think? I think that the Marriott is scared spitless that I'm gonna sue them. But I'm not. You know why? Because I poured the freaking coffee on myself, that's why. It was an accident - my accident. The hotel didn't do anything wrong.

Could the coffee kiosk have been more convenient? Sure. Could the coffee have been a tad less scorching? Sure. But you know what? Coffee is hot. I've known that for years. And I was juggling two cups. And I felt rushed and annoyed. And I made a mistake and poured molten coffee down my freaking leg. Embarrassing, and now I'm going to limp around for a few days.

Well, life goes on. I doubt I'll have to have it amputated. I think people sue too much. Yes, that's what this screed is about. People sue too much when it is their own dang fault. That's another point in favor of me becoming a Supreme Court Justice. When people bring lawsuits like this, I'll tell them to 'knock it off'. I think it is high time someone said it.

So knock it off, out there. Get over it and stop trying to trim your hedges by holding your lawn mower over your head. That's just wrong, and you know it. Nobody else is responsible when you cut off your head with the lawn mower. Ever buddy clear on that now? Good.

Well, the ice is largely melted now. The leg feels somewhat better. I think this is going to not be a lot of fun, but I'll get through it. I guess I'll put on another pair of chinos and go join the merriment. I was even carrying my rosary beads - you'd have thought I'd have been divinely protected or something. Dang.

Wakka-wakka,

Wiggy