TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 1 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= Well, here I am at St Timmy's in bee-oo-tee-ful Haywierd, Californica. Mr Cheez and I tried to get me transferred to a tardfarm[tm] not so far out in the weeds, but all the ones in San Fagsissyco are full up or have the typical narrow potty doors or lots of steps and things to get in my way. Anyway, I am now out of the clutches of Dragon Lady and her bunch and I breathe more freely. My roomie is George. He drove for the local bus company for many years before a stroke got him. Miss Kooky and he can talk about buses and Transit Queens They Have Known. He's a sweet guy but his short-term memory is hash. He and I are negotiating dividing up the closet and drawer space. I need more space for _crap_ and he needs more space for _clothes_. I'd prefer to run around naked (except that I might get tardly stains on my wheelchair seat cushion) and have lots of junque; he prefers to have a nice wardrobe and to smoke. So far this afternoon I put down Mr Cheez as the person they should call if I croak. He can drag me away by the remaining leg and make a bonfire to crisp me with. Considering the consumptive life I've led, having a pyre fueled by old fast food wrappers seems charmingly appropriate. I also told them not to prolong my miserable life except that they may give me oxygen to keep me from the pains of suffocation and they may hydrate me. The only other thing they are permitted to do is administer pain control. Ha. I doubt I need to have these directives on file but, considering all the misery I saw at The Eternal Rest Room, I don't want to try my luck. I also never figured on losing a leg... This afternoon there was some old duffer in the dining hall beating the everloving shit out of an old upright grand. He plays really well for somebody obviously retired. I will not go and do likewise and display my ignorance of entertainment music. I was a church organist for many years. As I write this, I have a ceedee on of John Longhurst blowing the dust out of the Mormon Tabernacle monster pipe organ. This is more of my famous "Dracula" music. I wonder how long it will take for George to get sick of it and blast me with Oprah. There is an honest-to- Glub model M-1 Hammond Spinet Organ in the fireplace lounge on the other end of the building. Unfortunately for it, someone left the power on it in an improper way and burned it out. Had this not ocurred, I might this moment be up there giving everyone my impression of Ethel Smith a-smoakin' with "Tico Tico". Miss Kooky, is my red samba dress back from the cleaners yet...? This place promises to be moderately tasteless already. There are three old ladies on this wing who vocally ejaculate for no apparent reason. It could be their Depends gets into a wad. When I was up front signing a whole bunch of paperses so they would let me stay here, the office creature wondered what my fountain pen was. I collect them, though my collection is in storage. I want Mr Cheez to bring them out so I can caress them one by one again soon. I have my Montblanc with me, filled with a curious red-brown ink they call Burgundy. When I passed the dining hall this afternoon, there were several tardy-looking folkez drooling away in their wheelchairs. I shall have to pay strict attention at dinner tonight. I want to be late for the skilled, first seating and dawdle long enough into the second seating to get a load of the tards. I am relieved to see they have a Hoyer lift so they can haul my dead ass into bed. I haven't seen a sliding board yet or I would be tempted to try getting there myself. I don't have a bed pan in my tasteless beat-up Danish Modern bedside stand. I think Nursey is going to be surprised when I ask for one. I like to Go every evening about half past eight. I get on it whether I only fart or do better. I wonder what George will think. Nevermind. He won't think about it too long. Short term memory hash, remember? This room shares a potty room with a room of women. I went in the potty room to hike down my sweatpants and pee into the urinal I keep handy. I was hoping one of the elegant black ladies next door would have a concurrent Call of the Kidneys, open her door, behold my little snakemeat spout, scream, fall over dead, and have to be carried away by the same undertaker who came to The Eternal Rest Room over the weekend. This dude is so fat. [How fat _is_ he?] He's so fat he has bigger tits than I did when I was really really really fat. His tits are so big Alice thought he was a Real Woman. I, as expert on Men's Bodies (having seen so many in my long career as a slut), set her straight. Anyway, as I sat there in my tardchair peeing away, I beheld the porcelain altar before me into which I would shortly pour my liquid offering. It was so near and yet so far. I can't wait to be cleared by the occupational therapist to resume depositing my apple juice and my groganry in the customary sacred receptacle. After a year of living in a place with mere roadside shrines impossible for me to use, you have no idea with what great rejoicing I shall take up my mantle and worship in a more spacious temple to noxious fume. Dinner is over. We had Roast of Something Off the Farm, _real_ mashed potatoes, and shredded beets in a gelatinous sauce. I think the cook wanks off into the pot. Probably he has the dishwasher help, too. They serve the same pre-greased brown bread and the same sloppy canned fruit for dessert. Now I know where Crazy Lady at The ERR got all her hints 'n' tips for Gracious Dining -- except that she forgot to salt or season anything. This place is even more tasteless than I thought; they run teevee during dinner and have a PEPSI machine! To their credit, the coffee, with which I had to make do, is drinkable. Costa Rican it is not. Classic Guggy's it almost is. Now, I want you to know that I tried to watch for funny eaters. I got more than I bargained for. My roomie seems to eat regularly with this 50- something spastic lady. She's not really bad that way but she did drop one of her spoons once. She drinks two cups of coffee, served together, using a straw. The dining room lady puts the sugar in her coffee and prepares the straw for her. I was glad the dining room lady did not come at _me_ with that noise. They don't use tardbibs[tm] here. If you spill it on yourself, it's just too damn bad. Scald your own may-nays and whine to yourself. This is a high-class place. Miss Spastic Who Isn't Too Bad That Way kept me so engaged in useless conversation that I couldn't watch for other funny eaters. I promise to try to do better tomorrow. You can have some Hammond Organ music if you want to go to the front lounge and install a new motor in the instrument. Otherwise just beat on the piano, because this has been the first of Glub knows how many installments of The Trials at St Timmy's. =================================================================