Operation: Minor Abrasion

Arthur Piffle considered himself a man of refined sensibilities, which, in layman's terms, meant he had a flair for the dramatic. His latest performance began with a seemingly innocuous encounter with his tax forms. A sharp, almost imperceptible sting on his index finger.

"The humanity!" Arthur shrieked, dropping the offending document as if it were a venomous snake. He clutched his finger, his face contorting into a mask of pure agony usually reserved for Shakespearean tragedies or stubbed toes. "I'm hit! Get help! Tell Brenda I love her!"

His wife, Brenda, entered the study, holding a cup of tea, unfazed. "What's happened now, Arthur? Did the toaster rebel again?"

Arthur, now hyperventilating and slowly sinking to one knee, presented his finger. A tiny, almost invisible red line bisected his skin. "It's… it's a deep laceration, Brenda! I can see bone! Possibly an artery! We need to apply immediate pressure! Tourniquet! Get the emergency medical kit! Call an ambulance!"

Brenda blinked, then calmly placed her tea on the desk. "You mean the kit that contains a single plaster and some antiseptic wipes, Arthur? For what looks like a papercut?"

"A papercut?!" Arthur wailed, offended. "This is no mere papercut, woman! This is an incision! A surgical-grade trauma! I'm losing blood, Brenda! My life force is draining away! I'm going faint!" He began swaying theatrically, narrowly avoiding impaling himself on a potted fern.

Brenda sighed, walked over, and gently squeezed his finger. "There. No more bleeding. Now, would you like a tiny, decorative plaster or shall we just dab it with some spit and get on with our lives?"

Arthur stared at his miraculously healed (and still barely visible) wound, then at his wife, whose eyebrow was slowly ascending towards her hairline. "Well," he muttered, deflating slightly, "a tiny decorative plaster would be appropriate for such a grave injury. But make it a cartoon one. For morale."