What, you want proof? Yes? Then read on and be amazed and satisfied. Or hopefully at least just satisfied.
A few weeks ago I got a call at 1 AM (Hey Call Gods, why the hell is it always 1 AM? Call me at noon, damn you!) from an emergency physician at Outside Hospital. Doctor Stupid (not her real name) had a young man who was shot in the femur (not shot in the leg, "shot in the femur" - the distinction will become crucially important in a moment), and because they do not care for trauma patients at that hospital, she wanted to transfer him to me. It sounded like a perfectly reasonable request, and I had no dispute. "Fine, send him over," I yawned, knowing that I might at least get about 2 more hours of sleep, since that's how long it would take for the ambulance to drive him the 10 km from there to here. Why it takes that long, I have no idea. Perhaps they walk the patient over.
Regardless, when he finally arrived (3 hours later, in fact), I went down to see him, and there were two innocent-looking bullet holes on the side of his leg, nowhere near where his femur should be. It looked suspiciously like mere flesh wounds, and when I looked at his X-ray, what I saw was a completely, totally, 100% intact femur. I bandaged his wounds and sent him home, grumbling the whole time about how ridiculous it is to trump up a story just to get the patients out of their emergency department and into my trauma bay. I not-so-silently cursed Doctor Stupid and prayed to the Call Gods to send her 273 "I Just *cough* Don't Feel Right" patients that night.
How's that for proof. Enough for you? No? Really??
This past week I got a call at midnight (at least it wasn't 1 AM, I suppose) from Outside Hospital #2. Dr. Fuckwit (not his real name) had a patient with - are you sitting down? - a gunshot wound to the leg. He must have heard me chuckle as he told me the patient's story.
"Why did they bother sending me here then?" she asked as we patched her up.