THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 10 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= I told all you sickos on the Internet newsgroup alt.tasteless to hang on and wait for The Trials #10. This is it. And now we can get to the good stuff. It is supposed to warm your cockles or your cock, whichever, remember? This is episode ten. The med cart nurse accosted me yesterday while I was netting. She had a pill cup and the usual stale water. "What's that?" "Your medicine." "I already had my vitamin pill." The vitamin pill I took at The ERR had a sort of grain-y and liver-y taste even though it was encapsulated. Mere gelatin or M&M-style glazing will not stop some nasty medicines. This one looks more like a brick-red almond than a pill. It tastes much worse than the others. Now here come a tiny aspirin-like pellet and a big red capsule. "This is your Vitamin C and your Zinc Sulfate." "I don't take _that_ stuff." "The doctor just ordered it." "I don't care. We're going to get things started right this time. I don't do stuff the 'doctor ordered' until the doctor talks to me." I shut the door because I get sick and tired of hearing this old fart next door go "AAAAAUUUUNNNNGGGGHHHHAAAAAUUUUNNNNGGGGHHHHH" all day. He pulls the sheet over his face. A lot of really "gone" old tards do that. Then he lies there and bellers all day and a lot of the night. I finally found out it's Goddammit Lady who rattles something all night. She hangs onto the siderail of her bed and jerks it back and forth trying to get out of bed, I guess. Between AAUUNNGGHH Man and Goddammit Lady and this glubdam transformer in the wall, it's a pisser trying to get any deep sleep around here. Anyway, back to the pills. I expect a doctor to see me before he or she gives orders about what is going to be stuck into my body. I had to pitch a bitch back at the Big City hospital when this loose cannon of a doctor in the group wanted them to put me back on a catheter and also shove a hose in my nose so they could force-feed me a high-protein tard diet. I pee fine so long as these idiot quacks leave my waterworks alone. I have always had somewhat low blood protein, so fuck that too. Come to find out it wasn't Ming the Merciful, my new Chinese doctor, who prescribed the new vitamin and whatever that zinc shit is. The fucking DIETICIAN put him up to it. The limit of conversation I have had with the dietician was to tell her I thought most of her casserole dishes had more than a passing resemblance to Alpo. We ain't through with this here one, Maud... Fuck these quacks who prescribe stuff just to bill Cruel Cross and MediCal! Fuck these wannabe quacks who "prescribe" stuff based on chart information which is now a year old! See? Didn't I _tell_ you old, bad information would get transferred here and they would start fucking with me? They just brought me a laser-printed "invitation" to the new St Timmy's Social Dining Program which is being inaugerated today. This means that those of us who can eat nice and not make a mess will go to the Occupational Therapy room for lunch from now on. No more staring at tards who eat funny. The problem is, just cuz you can eat nice doesn't mean you can socialize. I think I am going to hate this. I think I am going to fart in the middle of dessert and see what happens... Rooting around in my bedside stand, I found an open packet of Vitamins A & D Lotion (good for smearing on irritated tuckuses) which had got all over the side and bottom of my wash-up basin. I removed the basin to wipe off the goo and found a great wad of toilet tissue in the back corner. It was liberally smeared with now dessicated groganpaste, probably mine. I hope it was mine. Meditate upon the Hooper Room in this tardfarm. Something must've gone wrong with the dogfood loaf they served last night. The CNAs were bizzy all morning spraying the shit off of bed pads and asswraps. The stench in the corridor was not to be believed. I never inhaled such putrefaction since the time they forgot to empty the disposables hamper at The ERR for two whole shifts. We have precious few magazines at this tardfarm[tm] so I had to make do with an old copy of People magazine this morning while I dunked my cookies (Oreo -- they're 45 cents versus 50 cents for Swish Miss) in black coffee water. There was an ad for an HBO production in which we have these sterling characters who are quoted as follows-- [This is from the ad for Tracey Takes On... starring Tracey Ullman (whoever _that_ is). It was broadcast on HBO Wed 24 Jan 1996.] Alcoholic 70s TV Star: I know a thing or two about love. I've had six husbands. Four of them were actually mine. Sexist Cab Driver: When you're a chick magnet like me, you got to look like hot stuff. [This guy is something the dawg horked up.] Brazen Australian Stunt Woman [Ms .45?]: Death doesn't scare me. If something goes wrong and you think you are going to die, don't ruin the shot. If they don't get the shot you died for nothing. Singing Flight Attendant [aka Ball-Bearing Stewardess]: I never cry at Gone with the Wind. When I see Rhett Butler with that Village People moustache and his tight riding britches walking out on that squeaky girl, I know he's going right into the arms of the dusty cavalry lieutenant. Philosophizing Donut Shop Owner: Romance is like a donut. Everybody is hungry for a donut. Everybody is hungry for a romance. But when the romance is over, you don't feel so well. Maybe you vomit. Same thing with donuts. Not less than three times did this verbally-oozing nursey-type call George and me to lunch in the occupational therapy room. This is the new schtick they are trying on us who eat nice and everything. Though there were three calls to luncheon, the food cart was not in evidence. Finally there was a fourth call. I growled something about Was the food here yet. Well, lo and behold, there it was sitting in the middle of the corridor. All the old ladies and George (I am not sure there is a difference) were sitting in their places with bright, shiny faces waiting for the vittles to be passed around. Nursey insisted on patronizing us by removing all the stuff from the tray and placing it (mostly incorrectly) on the table. I didn't let her do that with mine. I don't care for strange fingerprints all over my drinking vessels or a wayward thumb in my meatballs, thank you. The parsley bill for this place must be astronomical. I imagine they use as much of that as they do city water. It's the first thing I discard even though it is supposed to be a healthy thing to eat. Glub knows I don't want to die of an excess of good health. It is true we had meatballs. Under the parsley rested two globules wet with gravy. Human testicles, which are similar in size and shape, are more inviting that these things. Balls at least have a nice brown bag to play with and they aren't normally redolent of stale garlic. Which reminds me to tell you what a travesty breakfast was. I sat up in bed when I heard the familiar slide of trays in the hall. What _is_ that stench? Omiglub! -- it's fucking Hash Day! I hate hash worse than I hate almost anything else on the face of the earth. Hash looks like something the dawg threw up. The recipe used here is seasoned such that you think the dawg OD'd in the onion patch to boot. I bade the nurse take that stinking plate out of here. I kept the cereal and coffee. I figured that a whole 28-ounce bottle of ketchup wouldn't be enough to kill the taste of _this_ barf. Even the decent-looking biscuit accompaniment was imbued with the fumes off this rot. What a way to start the day. So I guess they had some ground turkey rectums left over and used them to make our wakeup snack, is all I can think. This is the second day of the experiment in fine dining in the OT room. The administrator and two other semi-honchos came in at various times to look at us eat. They were oohing and ahhing about how delicious the luncheon was. I thought, How do _you_ know? -- I never see _you_ guys eating this shit. Why do these institutional kitchens have to doll everything up? Why can't they put out a simple, unadorned and _unadulterated_ beef patty so we can remember what a hamburger used to taste like? Why do we have Zucchini Mashup every other day -- other than because it is the California State Vegetable and it's cheaper than hogshit? All the "normal" people got a huge motherfucking slice of cherry pie for dessert. It was fully a quarter of an eight-inch pie. We diabetic tards got some glubawful unsweetened apple browned [as in sodomized] betty crap. While we were choking this hork back down, the activities lady was carrying on just like this was preschool. She is all, What was the most 'mischievious' thing you ever did? If I had told them the wickedest thing I had ever done, I would have cleared the room, so I compromised with reasonably good taste and described how to treat inattentive waitstaff. You take the tip money (probably not much of it, but enough to make the trick interesting) and drop it in a glass of water. Place a piece of cardboard over the glass and invert it and place it on the table. Remove the cardboard and leave the glass full of water and money upside down on the table. [_Do_ do this at home [he said doodoo heh heh heh heh heh] enough times to get it right before you embarrass yourself at Strizzi's Snotty Italian Cucina.] All the old ladies in our grooooooop declared themselves absolutely pure from ever having done anything underhanded. Nobody ever dipped anyone's pigtails into the inkwell of an old- fashioned desk. Nobody ever stuck a kick-me sign on the back of a class reject. Nooooo, we're just all Goody Two-Shoes. At least the spot light was off of me for a little while. These caretakers have the idea that I am to be compelled to be on stage and spewing wisdom whenever I am out mixing with the other tards. I am _not_ their glubdamn lapdog. I left two dollars in change under my [full] water glass. =================================================================