TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 12 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= Gee, I've been here only three weeks and we're already up to episode twelve. I can hardly believe it! And I thought this place wouldn't have much to talk about that's tasteless. How wrong I was! I must be doing the correct thing because none of you fellow a.t.ers have flamed me for boring you. In fact, I've picked up some new fans. You twisted fucks know who you are... Yesterday evening on my last round I stopped in to see Mr Verdugo up the hall. He always waves and tries to be pleasant even though his elevator stops at the third floor and grinds. He's one of the "feeders". Over at The ERR, being a feeder generally meant you are totally fucked up; you have a catheter and pissbag, you moan, cuss, or roar unintelligibly most of the time, you bite and hit, and you haven't got a lick of sense but you have a hose in your nose or directly into your belly where they pump "food" in so you won't die and cut off the money. Here we have nice feeders. I guess this place picks off the cream of the crop and leaves the real tards to the other "homes". Anyway, I noticed Mr Verdugo's feeding syringe. He's always hooked to a bottle of sustenance on an IV stand which runs via tube through an electronic pump affair which pinches the tube to scoot the liquid along. From there the tube is coupled to his surgically implanted stomach tube. The feeding syringe is used to give him a drink or to medicate him. They disconnect the feeding tube and squirt the contents of his feeding syringe into the stomach tube. The feeding syringe was lying on his tray table enclosed in a plastic housing much as cigars are tubed. I thought, gee, Mr Cheez would like to have one of those huge plastic syringes to play with. The plastic keeper would also make a great dildo. I'll see if I can nick him a set. Mr Cheez gets upset with me a lot. He thinks every time I mention him in a.t. his reputation sinks a little more. Some people just don't appreciate what you do for them. Breakfast this morning was unremarkable except to say that someone spilled the milk and didn't cry a bit. They just covered up the fact by getting a second glassful and putting it on the tray ... right there in the puddle the first one made. There was milk under the plate. There was milk under the coffee mug. There was milk _in_ the freakin' orange juice, clotted. Ick. I discovered there was milk soaked into the BROWN BREAD toast and diluting the scrambled cackleberry mix. Oh well, I ate it and kept my hole shut. I was hungry. When I growled something about the spill to my nurseypoo-du-jour, she tried to blame it on the clueless newbie CNA who brought George and my trays. Actually, the newbie is more coordinated than the oldbie, so it had to be a screw-up in the kitchen. They just don't hire for quality around this place. On the other hand, would _you_ work in a tardfarm? Last night I was sum-totally pissed at my evening CNA. I rang for her to get me in bed at eight, which is my usual time. I don't stay up later unless net traffic is really twisted and holds my interest. (It came close last night. Bradley, the Wyoming state cop and I had a verrrrry eentresteeng chat session. Any nightstick of his is a friend of mine...) Anyway, Rochelle is never anywhere to be found when you need her. A couple evenings ago she put me in bed pretty much on time but left me on the bedpan so long I went to sleep. When I woke up, I know I had a great big red ring on my ass because I could feel the indentation all over my hams. When she got around to removing the groganplatter[tm], it was stuck to my ass by suction. (All prospective paramours with sodomistic designs beware; you may lose your property...) It came away with an audible . I know you will want to know: Yes, I gave generously. But this evening I was forgotten completely for an HOUR while she dealt with what she would only say was "an emergency". I was highly pissed. We had a discussion in which she got all bent out of shape and defensive and everything. I told her I was not angry with her personally but with a system which can't cover "an emergency" and keep things going for a damn hour. "Hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney hihoney whatthehell whatthehell whatthehell whatthehell Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou Don'tleaveme don'tleaveme don'tleaveme don'tleaveme" They had Goddammit Lady sitting up in a wheelchair in the dining room at dinner last night. Sap that I am, I just can't ignore the old girl. I went and held her hand again until she calmed down. She sort of recognizes me now and she perks up when she sees me. We had dinner together, she and I. I have no idea what, if anything that meant to her. But it means something to me. I found out what that emergency was this morning. Queen Bee told me Goddammit Lady died last night about eight o'clock. You know, I'll bet she was a hellraiser in her day. I nominate her posthumously for consideration as an a.t. diva. The next inmate council meeting we have in this loon factory, I'm going to have a lot to say about the rule that staff may not admit to the ocurrence of a death here. That's why Rochelle was so tight- jawed yesterday. She got G-Lady ready for the family. They are who I saw in the corridor. I would like to have told them that she meant something to some of us as well. They might like to know that. Rest peacefully, Birdie. Bee said you were just beautiful after Rochelle fixed you up. =================================================================