If you, Mommy, tell me that little Johnny, who is bundled in 15 layers of clothing, including two hats and a hood, has a fever of 39.8, I will begin to despair of the human race.
If you, Mommy, tell me that despite the fever of 39.8, you were afraid little Johnny would get cold, my worst fears about the general intelligence of H. sap. will be confirmed.
I will commit ritual self-disembowelment in shame for your stupidity with a sharpened tongue depressor, right here at Triage, if you, Mommy, tell me that you last gave little Johnny Tylenol 14 1/2 hours ago. I will give myself an extra little twist if you underdosed little Johnny because you had given him a dose 12 hours previous.
With my dying breath, I will hand you, Mommy, the sharpened tongue depressor so you too may ritually disembowel yourself in shame, if you tell me that you saw your GP four hours ago, and you came in because little Johnny is not better.