The pain in your abdomen is unmistakable – your appendix has just burst. Even worse, you’re at your fiance’s parents’ place in Southampton, you’ve just taken seats for dinner, and there’s no way you can excuse yourself for emergency surgery.
“I think my appendix just burst,” you whisper to your fiance.
“Lane Squiretoe, if you go into sepsis shock in front of my parents, I swear the wedding is off,” she hisses.
What a bitch, you think.
You’ll have to remove your appendix at the table. But how?
First, wait until your future father-in-law launches into a long-winded story about how he and old “Hungry Ass” Hank Kissinger hand-picked the Church Commission after Andy “good times” Pinochet was put in power. Nod thoughtfully and ask germane questions (“where was Elliot Richardson during all this, sir?”) as you slowly remove your shoes, pants and underwear. Kick them aside.
If an aperitif is offered, I suggest a Negroni, or anything to do with Campari, and lots of gin. It’s not only delicious, the bitterness will take your mind off the excruciating trauma you’re about to inflict on your midsection. You might also get a shot of whiskey to sterilize your steak knife. I suggest a 16-year-old Lagavulin, the crown-prince of Islay malts.
As you sip your drink and hear how Don Rumsfeld (“uncle Donny”) and Dick Nixon personally choked old Sal Allende down in Chile, try to locate your McBurney’s point, which is one third of the way from the anterior superior iliac spine and the umbilicus. Plunge your knife into that point and saw to either side like you’re a pirate opening a burlap sack full of rubies. Avoid making a face.
There will likely be a large amount of blood spurting under the table at this point, but don’t worry. Let it bleed. Meanwhile, the first course will hopefully arrive.
Next, using whatever hand you’re not using to pick at your olive tapenade (be sure to complement your future mother-in-law on her imported olives), dig around in your abdominal cavity. Locate your appendix and pull it out. Cut it off and toss it under the table. Smile and wink at your fiance.
Offer to carve the crown roast with truffle-caper sauce. Laugh graciously as your future father-in-law compares your knife-work to the time he and “Doubledown” Dick Cheney pulled all the teeth out of a KGB guy, just for the hell of it.
“Have you ever thought about a career in the intelligence community, son?”
“Thought about it, sir,” you reply, placing the meat neatly on a serving platter. “I just didn’t know if I’d ‘make the cut.’”
If he only knew your entire lower intestine was currently sitting between your legs on the seat in front of you!
As everyone admires the main course, remove one of the strings holding the crown roast together, and with your fork, poke holes through your skin around the incision. Stuff your guts into your belly and lace yourself up like a tennis shoe.
Using as many napkins as needed, wipe up your mess. Toss the napkins under the table. Put your underwear, pants and shoes back on. You’re done!
If a big pile of bloody napkins and your discarded appendix is discovered, jab a thumb at someone you don’t know and lean in to your future mother-in-law: “Someone obviously didn’t like the pumpkin mousse.”
If everyone is looking at you, stand up and hold your arms out: “It obviously wasn’t me! Look how clean my pants are!”
If someone screams and points to the bloody, ragged stump of your cecum protruding from between the buttons of your shirt, get to a hospital immediately. Your tableside surgery skills leave a lot to be desired, mister.