"The Ethicist" is Randy Cohen's long-running advice column in the New York Times. Each week, Gabriel Delahaye's "The Unethicist" will answer the same questions as "The Ethicist," with obvious differences.

This week, an off-duty police officer pulls a McNulty, and Doug Mockett does the lord's work, if the lord's work involves impersonating a crippled person to beat the rush to the Cinnabon.

I am an emergency-medicine physician. The police and E.M.S. brought in a man in handcuffs who passed out while driving and hit a barrier. They thought he was drunk, which our alcohol test confirmed. But when he identified himself as an off-duty police officer, the cuffs were removed and no charges were filed. Can I report this without violating my ethical and legal duty to protect patient privacy? — name withheld, New York

I only played a role-playing game once, at Mike Danford's house, when I was in junior high. It wasn't even Dungeons and Dragons, it was some kind of third-rate, superhero role-playing game. Mike's house was one of those really awful poor people's houses, with piles of garbage, literally garbage, everywhere. His mom was the "dungeon master," and she had just had a corn removed from her foot, so that was soaking in a cooking pot filled with epsom salts. They had this little dog that I don't think anyone actually fed or took care of, it just rooted around behind the TV for Cheetos crumbs and cigarette butts. When I sat down on the couch, this is not a joke, the dog had taken a shit on the couch. There was probably a shooting gallery upstairs, and a meth lab in the basement, but I wouldn't know because I was too scared to even go into the fucking kitchen.

The thing about role-playing games is that you do whatever you want, but you roll dice to see if you are successful in your endeavors. Like, you can be all, "I'm going to challenge this demon to some Guns n Roses pinball at the Inn," and then the dungeon master is like "roll your fifty-thousand-sided-nerd-die to see if you get the November Rain skill shot." When I played, Mike's mom kept asking us if we wanted to fuck the female superheroes in the game, and then she would roll the dice to see if we were successful at fucking them. I think I was 12.

When I got home my mom asked me how the game went, and it was the closest I ever came as a child to having to point to the part on the doll where the bad man touched me. She called the other parents and as far as I know, that was the end of role-playing at Mike Danford's house. I saw him about a year ago. He drives a cab now.

I guess what I'm saying is, it's not ratting someone out if you're 12 and it's to your mom and it involves fucking superheroes in a shit-covered squatter's hovel. So if this accurately describes your situation, then you should totally report Mike Danford and his mom.

After a snowstorm, the Denver airport security line was hours long. I am 66 with gray hair (and perfect health), so I requested a wheelchair. No one at the airline asked why. My son and I were whisked through security in two minutes. I didn't harm anyone; I just delayed those in line another 30 seconds. I say, "The devil's tools to do the Lord's work." Was I wrong? — Doug Mockett, Los Angeles

Obviously, I have no problem with this. (Man, it has been an easy couple of weeks.)

But we still need to deal with the details of your letter logically. After a snowstorm, the Denver airport security line was hours long. Good. Causal relationship, I see it. You are 66 with gray hair and in perfect health. That's not your fault. Everyone gets kind of presumptuous as long as they don't die. But here's where you lose me: "so I requested a wheelchair." The syllogistic relationship between your saggy face and your ruse is intellectually false. You didn't request a wheelchair because you are 66 and have gray hair and are in perfect health. You requested a wheelchair because you are an asshole. The correct logical formulation of the problem thus would have been "After a snowstorm, the Denver airport security line was hours long. I am an asshole, so I requested a wheelchair." See how that makes more sense, Doug?

I'm sure you know, in all your infinite being old wisdom, that people of every age can be in a wheelchair, all it requires is some kind of debilitating illness or injury, and/or an innate sense of superiority that allows one to mimic a disability that is often as crippling emotionally as it is psychologically just to cut in line so they can grab a venti frapp before hitting the Captain's Lounge.

Let's read further, yes? "The devil's tools to do the Lord's work." Now, what is the devil's tool here? The wheelchair? Or you? You're definitely a tool. It might be you. But also what is the Lord's work? Cutting in line? Is that New or Old Testament where God is like "Dude, you should pretend like you're crippled and cut in front of all these fuckers, because fuck them." To which of the apostles did Jesus teach this valuable lesson? Was it Philip of Galilee? Simon the Canaanite? Rodney "the Douchebag"?

In any case, well done, Doug. And in front of your son, no less. Showing the way to a whole new generation of entitled assholes!

Previously: My Parents Are Divorced and Look How Great I Turned Out!

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