TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 8 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= "GET ME OUT OF HERE -- GET ME OUT OF HERE -- GET ME OUT OF HERE! BWAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAA! ..... Don't tell _me_ I'm TOO MUCH! YOU'RE too much! ..... All I want is the goddam bedpan for crissakes! ..... [gets bedpan after being repeatedly told to roll over farther so it can be positively lodged under her monster ass] I can't BREATHE with my head down like this! ..... Oh, SHIT, you're so busy! Don't tell me you're busy! Yeah! Go get the [charge] nurse! I wanna talk to HER! I want out of this goddam place!" Hi. This is episode eight of the Trials of St Timmy's. Sally, aka Evilene, is not a happy camper, as usual. I wasn't either this morning. Nursey came in and bid Cranky George and me a good morning and set down our breakfast trays. I have to hand it to this place; the cooking is a damn sight better here than at The Eternal Rest Room. So far the pancakes have been the high point of the day. Nursey came back, collected the breakfast trays, and gave George his wash-up water. I didn't get any. It was over two hours before some other nurse figured out I wasn't being made ready to greet the day, took pity on me, and brought me some hot water to clean my pits 'n' tits with. Where do they get these ignoramuses who run the med cart? This one wanted to stick me at a reasonable hour but wanted to come back later with my pill. I need my fucking pill before I eat anything or it doesn't control my metabolism during the hours I need it to do that, namely, the ones during which I am likely to eat. Another piece of horseshit is that I can't leave my urinal on the tray table because the "state" might come in and see it. Oh. I get it. They think nobody pees here. I can hang it on my headboard. For Glub's sake, it isn't a pitcher! I want it on the end where I _use_ it. Ralph came around yesterday to ask me a lot of nosey questions. All the head staff members are doing questionairres and profiles on me for my record. I am repeatedly assured that the information I provide is confidential. Sure. What they mean is, they don't put announcements in the papers saying come on in and read allabout our tards. There are always people I have never seen before looking in the binders to find out stuff for Glubknowswhat purpose. Today the activities director got nosey. I told her as little as I could. So far as she is concerned, I don't have any interests. I do not want to be arm-twisted into sing-alongs and tard parties. I have my phone line and internet connection going now. Leave me alone. Yesterday the phone man came and connected the last pair in the street to my jack. Anybody else here who wants a phone is shit out of luck until the engineers do something like lay another cable or install concentrators to make one pair carry several subscribers. To avoid a big hassle, the phone people were back today messing around in the junction boxes and man holes to free up any remaining pairs. They farted around and knocked me off my internet connection four times. I hate the goddam phone company but I love the guy who comes here to install. He has really great pecs and perky little tits I just want to bite til the cows come or he does. Frances threw a fit in the lunchroom today. Some old geezer tried to pull up to "her" table. Frances resembles Golda Meir except that she doesn't have the goatee. She doesn't want any men at her table and she means it. This is quite strange because she doesn't mind me. But I guess she knows I am a lady at heart. Jocelyn is the second person I've met who has MS. Jocelyn also has had a mastectomy at some time. She has one huge, drooping, pillow-like boobie on her left side. It makes her blouses fit funny. She can drive her chair with one arm and go in a straight line. Ah, physics... "NURRRRRSE!" Sally is at it again. Omigod. Sally has a tinkle bell she's about to ring the clapper out of. Where did she get _that?!_ She never uses the call light button. She yells or, now, she shakes that bell. I love the look on med nursey's face when I won't let them poke my finger. This afternoon I snatched the alcohol swab out of her hand, wiped, dried, and stuck myself before she knew what was up. It shouldn't be too many more seconds before Sally gets poked and goes into ESBM (Evil Screaming Bitch Mode). Music to my ears. Much better than another run-through of Bicycle Built for Two. George wasn't so cranky this morning. He spoke to me even though I had a gas attack in the middle of the night that drove a pint of groganbutter[tm] out of me and all over my protective pad right up to my balls. I woke up about midnight needing to pee. I took hold of my ,,tesorito'' and got a handful of a lot more than gonad. Steenk. Ickypoopoo. Chris, our dear pooperdoc in waiting sent me quite a lecture about gassy bowels in email. This boy has a love for guts that will take your breath away. You can just tell how dedicated to the almighty starfish and its ancillary structures he is by the reverent tone he uses. It appears that, as a diabetic with at least some pancreatic insufficiency, I can look forward to an intermittently gassy lifestyle henceforth. O Joy. George went off by himself as is usual with him, though he didn't come back to the room to watch Bonanza at eleven as is his custom. The next thing I know, they are saying the lunch troughs are ready, inferring I should get my ass to the lunchroom before all the good places are taken up by the senility squad. After lunch I came back to the room to find the head nurse (no, she does not wear kneepads) looking for George. He didn't show up for lunch. Come to think of it, I haven't seen his girlfriend, either. Maybe they eloped. I hear tell George will leave the farm ocassionally and go wonder the streets in his wheelchair. Could be my groganbutter[tm] episode made him run away from home. One time when Mr Cheez walked into the room I had at The ERR, he found the nurse very bizzy cleaning my ass and he nearly turned to stone. I might have done George in and transformed him into a gargoyle. They found George at a rapid transit station two cities away. He just wanted to go out and ride one of the buses he'd driven for over twenty years. Since he is unlikely to make "sentences" of more than two words, the driver of the bus probably reported George to central dispatch who then called the tardfarm[tm] to come get him. George hasn't said a word to me in over twenty- four hours. He is more cranky than ever. When I rang for a nurse a little after midnight, George got really upset, swearing and carrying on. When he got up this morning, he banged and crashed around to make enough noise to pay me back, I guess. The cute part was, he got so carried away he fell down on the floor and had to be picked up. Miss Kooky and Mikey came to see me yesterday afternoon. We sat on the patio with Queen Bea and carried on such that there cannot possibly be any doubt left in her mind that it's all just us girls plus one misguided straightboy -- straight but not narrow, apparently. Dear old Bea has a bit of a kinky streak herself, so we are all good company for each other. When I went for the free mid-morning coffee today, Big Mama was lying in her extended wheelchair under her table, holding court as usual. She was upset about something. When the activity lady came to her, Big Mama was exceedingly testy. I got BM to tell me what the matter was. Her roomie had got into her stuff. This pissed off BM BT (big time). She just went on and on about it, how she was going to tell Ralph, the social worker, all about it and if that old broad ever did it again she was gonna hit her upside the head. What St Timmy's is, is Peyton Place on Nembutol. They should give the staff some. I found a pile of cast-off magazines in the lunchroom and read about how Billy Graham's biker kid, now repentant, is poised to take over daddy's preaching circuit and game when the old boy pops off. I was musing about the conversion power religion has when it stands to put a lot of money in your pocket when this awful guy who works here tried to put a tardbib[tm] around my neck. "It's time to eat. Here, let's put this on." [Let's not!] "But you have to wear this to keep your clothes clean." [I don't think so, sonny!] "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I'll just get one of the nurses..." [Good move, you miserable misguided coon.] I left. I'm tired hanging around all these old people anyway. Hell, I'm only 52. Let's party! =================================================================