On no less than 3 different occasions my Foster-Brooks-looking grandpa whiskey-binge-drank himself into such extreme comas, that paramedics actually pronounced him dead and took him to the morgue. At which point he'd wake up on a slab in a horrible, hung-over mood and storm right out of there, scaring the living shit out of the employees. According to what the County Coroner told my aunt (who lives nearby) about her father, he had to tell his employees, "Don't worry, that's just Mr. Fitz******, he dies and comes back to life all the time."