TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 4 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= This is the fourth diabtribe in my new series of see-all and tell-all. Coffee Social was hardly social. Everybody just sat there drinking their coffee and staring vacantly. I met Frances because one of staff felt the need to push me, without permission, up to a table across from the old dear. We really didn't have much to say to each other except that the coffee isn't served hot enough. By the time you get it fixed it's about luke warm. Staff wanted to fix mine but I only want a half packet of sugar substitute in it. They would make it sickening if they got a free hand. It's called gracious hospitality. (Furball.) At meals we get coffee in a brown mug so you can't see how weak the stuff is. But at Coffee Social we get it in clear tan plastic tumblers. How continental. (Damned furballs.) Well, I guzzled mine without fear of getting anything like a caffeine rush, and took off to explore the rest of this tard patch. Lemme tellya, when you've seen one antiseptic white hall here, you've seen 'em all. Today must've been New Resident Evaluation Day. I so far have met the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the activity director, and the one I think is the dietician. Hey lady, get rid of the Glubdamn brown bread and get some Orowheat in here. Don't scorch my fried egg. What is it with tard farm cooks that they have to burn eggs? The PT says I can come down and pull weights anytime the room is not busy. I've been there today and found out how much it hurts to be away from one's physical routine and go back suddenly. The OT is going to get the maintenance man to lower my bed so I can use a slide board to get from bed to wheelchair to bed. He may have to remove the casters to get it low enough. Nursey will hate _that_... The upside is, it won't try to go anywhere when I am over mother earth in mid-buttslide. The activity director is the one who tried to pour too much aspartame in my coffee water. I made it to the dining room in time for the first lunch seating today. When you wheel into the room, some staff do-gooder just grabs the handles on the back of your chair and puts you where they think you ought to be. I'm not sure yet, but I think there is a pecking order based on ability to eat "nice". I am still a loose cannon, and so made second string. George, my roomie, made first along with Spastic Lady. I got to sit across from a toothless wonder who likes to push out her lower lip now and then to air where her teeth used to be. I can just see her doing this with dentures if he has or gets any. They will come sailing halfway out of her mouth is a Picasso-esque off-center grin. But today we merely got to see the accumulation of chocolate pudding between her dental ridge and lower lip. How attractive. Staff go around during the meal admonishing folkez not to do things like that. Lunch strings three, four, five and six will require some study so I can adequately describe them for you. Give me a few days to check it out. The maintenance man found a power center cord for me so I can plug in my teevee and Mr Cheez's VCR. Oh, goody. Now I can look at boy-boy fuck movies and give George something to think about. George's intelligence is all there; he cannot find the words he wants in his ROM chips. The stroke sort of scorched his circuit cards. Maybe it'll reheat George's solder welds when he sees Jeff Stryker cram that monster choad into a willing sexslave. MaintMan said he will try to fix the ballast transformer that hums so loudly at night. I must say the staff have a helpful and willing attitude, much more so than at The ERR. It remains to be seen whether they carry out their promises. The diet lady asked me how I like it here. If she is fishing for compliments on the kwizzeen, she may be majorly disappointed. I have put her to the test. This afternoon, after noting we will be presented turkey sammich with gwavy for dinner, I rang the bell at the kitchen door. Aside from thinking I hit the fire alarm by mistake, I got to ask for a beef patty as substitute, but don't know if I will get it. The kitchen lady smiled like someone has just smeared groganbutter[tm[ under her nose and let the door close. This afternoon as I looked at a bunch of fractal images while Bach was playing on the ghetto blaster, I heard my named called out with great formal dignity. I will never forget that voice. It was the shrink who haunts The ERR dispensing HappyJuice[tm] to the terminally unsettled. I guess he came over here to pick up $60 off MediCal or private insurance for every tard he scribbles in the chart of. What a fine racket. I shouldda gone and become a doctor of something not known to be fatal. The consultant fees can add up to be staggering. This is Thursday and so a four o'clock we have Happy Hour. The vittles are non-alcoholic "beer", sugar-bearing 7up, and Brand X cheese puffs. Spastic Lady kept whining for a real live Falstaff. George was with her holding her hand. She cannot bring food or drink to her mouth because of Multiple Sclerosis. George feeds her and sees that she can get at the straw in her beverages. These two really do hold hands a lot. He even kissed her. She said, rather boldly I thought, she and he can't fool around because she has a catheter. Dear Abby figure that I am, I reminded her that there are lots of other things you guys can do. Then I thought about what I said and wondered if they thought I meant orally or anally. Sometimes one should shut one's hole and eat one's corn chips. Dinner was subdued this evening. The dining hall was only half full. Many of those present were just putting in time. Today seemed one of those days when the really old or out-of-it tards are plopped into "jerry" chairs and left to amuse themselves by playing with their catheter hoses or, as in the case of the Goddammit Lady, squeaking away in their little old lady voice such directives as Don't Hurt Me and Goddammit over and over again like a windup doll that will never run down. I had to ask again for my beef patty. They plopped a miserable chunk of turkey loaf on my plate, covered with gravy and resting on ... brown bread. My evening nurse went to bat for me. Soon a pissed-off cook's assistant brought the beef patty plate, plopped it down with the lid left on, and a cheery Here ya go -- not. I removed the cover and found what seems to be the universal answer to cook's mistakes in places like this: A hand-formed cake of meatloaf. It was presented en sammiche with ... GLUBDAMN FUCKING BROWN BREAD. Well, I was warned by the wording: Beef patty, not hamburger patty. I forgot to bring my bottle of ketchup, too. In not covering the cook's sins with the Sacred Blood of the Tomato, I discovered the patty to be seasoned with cinnamon. Yup. The cook's a dot head. =================================================================