THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 22 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= This is episode 22. Mr Cheez and the Fucktoy came to see me yesterday. They had time to waste before the fireworks displays for Independence Day. Fucktoy hates it when I refer to him like that, but I tend to disguise real names of the people I talk about in this saga. If I didn't pick exactly the right psudeonym for him, he'd never let me hear the last of it. So I picked one that pleases me and he can go ahead and whine. Fucktoy thinks I put him down because he's basically a whore. Let's face it, he charges for services rendered and Mr Cheez is his old man. Far from putting either of them down, I am here to celebrate their tastelessness. They follow quite carefully in the beatified and sticky tracks of St John Hollister. Fucktoy has much potential for becoming a member of the tasteless fraternity. He spouts one-liners like a speed freak on Ritalin. Because I am loath to leave the room on account of the thievery, we sat on the patio outside the sliding door to my room. It was the first time I noticed the cement slab was continuous between this and the other rooms on this side of the wing. Most rooms with patios have their slabs separated with a growth of ivy, the California state _official_ weed. Somewhat curious, I toodled down the cement to the gate in the fence which is there to keep us tards from wondering out into the staff parking area where we risk seeing our reflection in shiny windshields, becoming excited, and spraying our decayed seed all over them just like cats. Fucktoy decided we should tour the outer grounds. Mr Cheez is acting as motor on my tardchair and so here we go, we pass the back door to the kitchen, some nasty garbage barrels, slop buckets, one young maintenance man who seems shocked by the procession, and one drop-dead cute kitchen slave. I certainly hope he's the one the cook has wank into the grated beets for sauce. We turn the corner of a decrepit storage shed to find a sign warning us it is full of gasoline and flammable. Well, this explains the flavor of the chicken soup... On the other side of this tin hovel is the gerry- and wheelchair graveyard. Here are tardholders of all descriptions which lack one or more salient parts. Fucktoy picked out a wheelchair which had no panels at the arms. He loves to pop wheelies in a wheelchair. He claims once to have been able to bump himself down a flight of stairs in one. Along about his third wheelie, Fucktoy catapults himself over backwards. When he was smarting off over at The ERR one time he did the same thing. O to be young and indestructible. On our way back from farting around under a big shade tree, we found a broken-down screening fence full of miscellaneous junk and surrounding a good-sized gas incinerator. Fucktoy went berserk imitating a nazi officer herding tards to the ovens. I sort of wonder just what this contraption was used for. The main port is of adequate size to shove in a body. I have a short but growing list of other "residents" we could try this with... Mr Cheez offered to go get dinner from KFC. Glub. Real food. The lunch was inedible. To celebrate the holiday, some wankstain in the kitchen thought TDS (Tardfarm Dogfood Substitute) "hamburgers" would be celebratory. A TDS hamburger patty is a mixture of beef and dark turkey meat put through a fine grinder. The patty is formed by two hands clapping and looks exactly like a splatted turd right down to the finely pebbled finish. All that is needed to make the effect complete is to add coarsely minced onion to the mix and you have the look of undigested corn, sort of. (I ate a half pack of soda crackers and drank the coffee and liked it.) When lunch sucks this badly, you know "dinner" is going to be worse. We didn't wait to find out. I gorged on chicken nuggets, baked beans, cole slaw and instant potato that does _not_ taste like library paste. The latest theft is that of my Penlet II finger pricking device. I had it this morning when this real numbnuts of a relief med cart nurse was back on. She thinks I hate her. She's becoming more and more correct... She's an idiot who cannot remember to bring everything at once, thinks I can swallow without water, and leaves the lights on when we are sleeping in here. But I digress. I discovered my personal S&M device missing when the afternoon sadist came to see me. So I turned her away bloodless and immediately called Miss Ralph to report the supposed theft. You see, I left the room at a quiet time this afternoon just long enough to take a letter to the office to be mailed out. I was gone not more than five minutes. My two prime suspects were not in a position to have done this. The thing may be misplaced but with Queen Bee missing more things, I doubt it. My chief suspect, Johnny, the one who was shot in the back, may deserve having been shot. He's turning into a real turd of a human doing. You expect old tards like The Buzzard to yell NURSE all the time, but this one's doing it, too. He's becoming more and more demanding and is pissing off staff right and left. You'd think ole Cardinal Frump croaked and took over Johnny's body. In his favor I have to say it is getting more and more difficult to get assistance around here even when you are semi-able to help yourself. Everybody knows I want to go to bed between eight and half past, yet I often have to wait til nine or later because they're all tied up. The lamest excuse I have so far is, Oh she's eating. Eating whom?! Then the one who answers the light on behalf of the eater says to turn it off. I do. When she leaves I turn it right back on again so the charge nurse can continue to enjoy the high-pitched shriek the audible signal makes. My half sister-in-law wrote to me saying that her and my half- brother's health concerns make conflicting demands upon what they can eat. I offered her some advice based on the diet in this place. Use a lot of dark turkey meat and chicken. They throw pork at us because it's cheap, not because the Pork Board is correct in referring to it as The Other White Meat and insinuating pig is healthy to eat. I've heard dark turkey meat isn't that low in fat and cholesterol either. Whatever you cook, be sure to add lots of bitter and stale garlic flavor. Your outflow, both liquid and solid, will reek of it. That's supposed to be GOOD for you, too. I live for the days when Mr Cheez or Kooky bring me real food from Kentucky Fried Buzzard or Taco Hell. I had quite a morning this morning. Around four-thirty some newbie nurseypoo comes in the room and wakes George and me up on the pretext of checking to see if we are wet. Sorry, one thing we two don't need is to be checked to see if we pee the bed. I often wonder if the charge nurse ever gives these minions any instructions at all. The med cart nurse was a newbie also and hadn't the faintest idea how to participate in the morning finger stick ritual. Where do they get these people? The nursing staff at The ERR at least had half a brain and would come when called. Not these idiots. Breakfast was a real winner. The main plate was one waffle not even the size of a saucer. The usual lumpy overcooked hot cereal accompanied it. I sent the whole thing back and said I want some BREAKFAST, not a fucking snack. The dietician I thought was off til Monday showed up and asked what was my beef. My beef was that there wasn't any. Duh, she said. I finally prevailed and got two fried eggs, toast, and some honest-to-God cornflakes. I think I scared her right good because Mr Cheez came in very early this morning and was present to see the whole shebang. In front of her, while she was arguing with me and telling me how I am on a controlled diet (bullshit) blah blah blah, I turned to Michael and said, Go over to Jack in the Box and get me some breakfast. This got her into cooperation mode because she knows I don't talk to hear my head rattle. It's a good thing I got a big breakfast, too, because lunch is sitting here next to me reeking away. It's garlicky meatloaf and some kind of greasy pasta. (This is diet food?!) These irritations pale to insignificance when they are compared with real health problems such as high blood pressure and the need for a contradictory diet. I consider myself somewhat blessed that I am only mildly diabetic. So long as I don't go crazy in a candy shop or snack on cheese puffs, I get along very well. Not walking is nothing to get upset over. Surely you can tell how I love to be a minor pain in the ass to people. This nonambulatory state has put me into a position to realize my calling. Actually, what I want is my independence. I want a door I can shut and not have people bent on doing good coming through it thirty times a day bothering me. When one of these housing agencies calls, I am out of here like a shot. I'll work out the details later. I want to make toast and eggs they way I like them. The thing I most long to do once I leave here is to take the San Francisco Chrummicle to the toilet with me, hook up to a nice full slow-running enema bag, and wash the past one and a half years right outta my system. =================================================================