Not to be outdone, here's a badass scene from Tombstone in which Doc Holliday shows up Johnny Ringo despite the fact he's both drunk and has no lungs thanks to tuberculosis -- making his sarcastic cup-handling display all the more impressive, since he should be in a box somewhere.

Essentially, Hollywood has two kinds of drinkers: losers like us mortals who actually suffer the ill effects of alcohol and are quickly ignored as weak and unworthy, and those who have ascended like vikings to the mighty mead halls of Valhalla, where booze can replace plasma in your bloodstream and sobriety is just a phase that interrupts your longer moments of loud creativity and awesomeness.

The added bonus here is that, depending on what got shredded, you could have a shoulder blade that's in pieces, bone fragments everywhere, nerve damage thanks to the brachial plexus, or maybe an arm that's only attached by the skin on the outside while the joint inside is completely destroyed. Who knows? All of that should leave you crying like a baby.

On the upside, in a movie, a shoulder wound is a lot like kissing someone who's been chewing tobacco -- there's a moment of unpleasantness, but then you make a face and it's over, and now you have to do other things.

There are also plenty of times when the implication of massive blood loss is there, but apparently it just resolves itself. Merle from The Walking Dead has to use a shitty hacksaw to take his own hand off, then escape from a massive mob of zombies, which is the sort of activity that would likely get the blood pumping out of your already-dangerously-close-to-killing-you stump, and he makes it out fine. This is a severe arterial bleed we're talking about -- one that had to be self-inflicted, too. He had to cut through bone and everything, then escape a rooftop while being pursued by monsters. So basically: No, Merle died up there, and go fuck yourself, writers of The Walking Dead. Your show about zombie hordes is unrealistic.

You can tell the baby is about to come when the water-breaking scene arrives. It's like a handy timer meaning you have 30 minutes at the very most to deliver this baby. Never mind the scores of women in real life who then go into labor for hours or days; this movie baby is on its way pronto. As an added bonus, the mom-to-be will now be at her hormonally most unpredictable, and thus some kind of rage monster. Will she hilariously grab the father and yell "You did this to me!" displaying superhuman strength? Or will she hilariously scream for an epidural? Whatever happens, count on it being hilarious. Unless you're not watching a comedy, in which case, everything still applies, only toned down in ways so that it's not funny.

When the baby arrives, you get to see how much of a budget the producers saved for the scene. No budget? It's a six-month-old, perfectly clean baby they hand to the actress playing mommy. Some budget? A three-month-old they wiped cream cheese and grape jelly on. Gross.

At this point, the birth is done and everyone can go home. There is no placenta, because what the hell is that? No need for follow-up tests or even those eye drops they give babies, because that just wastes time. And if you were planning on having a C-section, well, obviously you didn't, because how would that fit into the script?

Suitably gross, and lasts about nine seconds. The alternate Hollywood puke scene is this one from Stand By Me:

In this instance, puke is powered by pressurized gas and instantly contagious, like that disease in 28 Days Later. It spreads like wildfire, and no one is left unscathed. You'll see such things again:

And again:

People just love a good group puke.

The reality of puke is somewhere in the middle. Most of us never puke in large groups; it tends to be a private affair. If you feel a puke coming on, you want solitude. When you get there, you don't spit a mouthful of pudding into a pristine toilet, then wash your mouth in the sink. I, for one, sound like my insides are yelling at my outsides. It's like a bear fight is happening somewhere in my guts. Just a rage sound as a wash of madness bursts forth. And it's never a single plopper, nor is it a nonstop "better hold my breath so I don't aspirate this vomit and die" sort of hose affair, either. It's puke, then heave, then puke, then heave, then puke again. It's like doing sit-ups, only instead of flexing those abs, you're dumping beef stew from your face into a toilet while your nose begins to run and your eyes water like a child with a skinned knee.

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