You really can’t put one over on a nurse—especially one who knows how to hold a grudge and has access to medical-grade tape.
The motorcycle patrolman learned that lesson the hard way.
It started innocently enough. He was rushed into the hospital late one night with a raging case of appendicitis. Sirens, flashing lights, concerned doctors—the whole emergency-room drama. Surgery went smoothly, the appendix came out, and the medical team assured him everything had gone perfectly. Textbook procedure. No complications. Recovery should be quick.
But the next morning, something felt… off.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t nausea. It was a strange, persistent sensation across his chest, like something was tugging at him every time he shifted in bed. A faint pulling, almost like someone was messing with his chest hair.
At first, he ignored it. Post-surgery discomfort, he figured. Hospitals are full of weird sensations. But as the hours passed, the pulling didn’t stop. It got worse. Every breath, every movement, it felt like his chest hairs were being gently but relentlessly yanked.
His mind started racing.
Had the doctors done another procedure without telling him? Was there some experimental medical device involved? A hidden complication no one had explained? He imagined worst-case scenarios—internal monitors, unexpected stitches, maybe something had gone terribly wrong.
Finally, curiosity and anxiety won out.
With some effort, he pulled his hospital gown down just far enough to see what was going on.
That’s when he froze.
Firmly taped across his very hairy chest were three wide strips of industrial-strength adhesive tape. The kind that laughs at soap, water, and human dignity. And written across the tape in bold, black marker were the words:
“GET WELL QUICK… FROM THE NURSE YOU GAVE A TICKET TO LAST WEEK.”
The realization hit harder than the anesthesia ever had.
A week earlier, he’d pulled over a speeding car near the hospital. The driver—a nurse finishing a brutal shift—had begged for a break. He didn’t budge. Ticket written. No mercy.
Nurses, it turns out, have long memories.
And access.
The laughter echoing from the nurses’ station when he rang the call button confirmed everything. Justice, medical-style, had been served.
But if that story proves you should never underestimate a nurse, the next one proves you should never underestimate an old man—especially one who’s bored.
In a quiet rural town, a retired farmer found himself with too much time on his hands. After decades of waking up before dawn, tending land, and working until his bones ached, retirement felt less like freedom and more like slow torture.
So he opened a medical clinic.
No medical degree. No modern equipment. Just a sign nailed to the door that read:
“GET TREATED FOR $500 — IF NOT CURED, GET $1,000 BACK.”
The sign alone caused a stir. Locals whispered. Doctors scoffed. One young physician in particular—Dr. Young—was absolutely convinced the old geezer was running a scam.
And Dr. Young saw opportunity.
Confident in his medical training and certain the old man was a fraud, he decided to pay the clinic a visit and walk out $1,000 richer.
Dr. Young entered the clinic with a smug smile.
“I’ve lost my sense of taste,” he announced. “Nothing tastes like anything anymore.”
The old man didn’t even blink.
“Nurse,” he said calmly, “bring the medicine from box twenty-two. Three drops in the patient’s mouth.”
The nurse obeyed.
The moment the liquid touched Dr. Young’s tongue, he recoiled.
“AAAGH! That’s gasoline!”
The old man smiled. “Congratulations. You’ve got your taste back. That’ll be five hundred dollars.”
Dr. Young paid, furious but determined.
A few days later, he returned.
“This time,” he said, “I’ve lost my memory. I can’t remember anything.”
The old man nodded thoughtfully.
“Nurse, medicine from box twenty-two. Three drops.”
Dr. Young jumped back. “Oh no you don’t! That’s gasoline!”
The old man clapped his hands together. “Congratulations! Your memory is back. Five hundred dollars.”
Now down a thousand dollars, Dr. Young stormed out, humiliated. But his ego wouldn’t let it go. He had to win.
Several days later, he returned for one final attempt.
“My eyesight is failing,” he announced dramatically. “I can barely see.”
The old man frowned. “Hmm. That’s unfortunate. I don’t have medicine for that.” He reached into a drawer and handed over some cash. “Here’s your one thousand dollars back.”
Dr. Young smiled—until he counted it.
“This is only five hundred dollars!”
The old man leaned back, grinning. “Congratulations! Your vision is back. That’ll be five hundred.”
The nurse nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Sometimes wisdom doesn’t come from textbooks, and revenge doesn’t come from shouting. Sometimes it comes from patience, timing, and knowing exactly when to smile.
Between the nurse with the marker and the old farmer with the fake clinic, one truth stands out clearly: experience beats arrogance every time. You can have authority, education, and confidence—but underestimate the wrong person, and you’ll pay for it.
Usually in cash.
Sometimes with tape.
And always with your pride.
