THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 25 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= This is episode 25. Laying off the vitamin pills and eschewing the garlic in the food has not really helped my LiquiShits[tm]. Night before last I called for the offering plate and laid on it tooting trombone trills. I did clear my nether throat a bit. Nurseypoo said there was about a cupful of nice brown paste in there. If it would absorb all the moisture in my bowel and give me the thrill of launching real live grogans again, I would eat a pound of that awful plastic-like fat-free Alpine Lace "cheese". Even after I finished (I give myself one whole PBS nature show to spend on the pan), there were ocassional rumbles. I should have paid attention to them. I awoke at three a.m. just knowing my butt was in another puddle of LiquiShit. I'll fix you, I said to my recalcitrant datehole, I'll make you lie in this crap til morning. I didn't want to deal with the 11-7 crew anyway because they turn on all the lights and make a lot of noise. In the morning when I discovered the crud had dried onto my buttcheeks like rubber paint, I regretted my obstinancy. I had a nice, experienced, CNA and she didn't deserve to have to get out the sandpaper and wire brushes to clean my filthy ass. The story was pretty much the same last night. I farted and farted and farted and spewed forth nary a dollop of goo. In the night I felt goo. The overnight crew this time were so Glubdamn noisy that I decided to add to their workload. This time they were having an especially bad time because the Chink next door got into his groganage. From the squealing and exclaiming I could hear right through closed bathroom doors and a so-so wall, he had it all over. All over his hands, all over his bed rails, and he and his sheets were smeared from knees to elbows. Taking no pity on them whatever, I rang and got them to clean me up. They sent in the Asian girl newbie. Most newbies do as little as they can get away with. This one was quite thorough. She even treated my balls with respect, moving each one out of harm as she scrubbed away the groganpaste. You could say my taint, t'was... I can't remember when anyone cleaned my asshole so thoroughly. Hell, it was so good I was secretly pinching a tit to go along with it. Yesterday, smarmy Danny repaced the string on my overbed light. Now that it is obvious it has a switch, everybody wants to use it and blind me. Danny is a little bit pissed to see that I had a different lock on my drawer than the one he thinks he graciously provided. I told him mine has _two_ keys and I know where they are. I wanted to tell him I keep one in my bra and one stuck up my ass. The occupational therapist and I played slide in and out of bed again yesterday. Danny was told to quit dicking around and find a bed that will go low enough to match the height of my wheelchair seat. The man is not happy; people are making him do some fucking work around here for a change. He takes the credit for toning down the noise the solenoid in the wall has been making at night. I heard somebody farting around out there a couple evenings ago. If it was he who fixed it, too bad he didn't electrocute his sneaky ass on those bare live terminals. The problem with having the solenoid quieted is that we can hear Franny, Chink, Salas, and some other old poop holler in the night. Bee wandered into my room as nurseypoo was putting me up for the night. This time I _know_ Her Majesty saw my promised land. I hope she's happy now. If she wants to view it again, she may, but she will know to bring a magnifying glass. Queen Bee likes the new change purse Mr Cheez got me to replace the nicked one. It has a little gold ring thang on the front that makes it look like a Gucci knockoff. It didn't fool me, but Bee bought it. Today is looking up. They brought me _real_ scrambled egg for breakfast. No more of this yellow crud that looks like vinyl paint scapings mixed with warm water. It was served by another newbie, a cute flip boy name of Roger. Oh baby oh baby oh baby, I'm sick sick sick. Heal me with your magic wand. Queen Bee stuck her head in while I was netting and gave me a big teethy grin. She just got her replacement choppers. Gee, she won't have to eat ground-up food any more. That's what they do with you, you know, when you don't have any teeth. They run everything through a fine grinder and scoop it onto your plate with an ice cream scoop. Your plate looks like you have a ball of chocolate ice cream, lime sherbet, and orange sherbet. That would be the meat crap, the green veg, and the sweet potato. If we have beets you will get a lump of "raspberry sorbet". The act of chewing breaks out the flavor in food. This stuff tastes about like nothing. It is totally ruined and violently boring. I don't think I will ever understand this blood sugar (BG) thing. I just tested 126 and I feel like I was in the 60s, antsy and slightly pissed off. Before breakfast I was 81 which is damned low for me in this environment and the way their meter works. I wasn't hungry at all at lunch. It's amazing what a good egg breakfast will do to hold my hunger at bay. All I ate was the potato and the peach bits. The ERR had a two-part tank car of pineapple juice and crushed pineapple out back of the kitchen. This place has one of peach bits and artificial sugarless cranberry drink. I remember now! -- I had three Hostess Twinkies about 10:30. I guess the cum-filled center will kick your diabetic ass. * * * * * I want to thank you, the readers, for your time in going over these tales and the ones from The Eternal Rest Room. I think it's been good therapy for me to get it out of my system this way. I sincerely hope that reading these tales is entertaining, informative, perhaps disturbing, and, above all, laugh-provoking. I recently quoted some email in these articles which I'd received from readers. I was advised that quoting private communications might prove embarrassing to the writers when their words become archived and indexed in search engines. Oops. If anyone has heartburn because of what I did, I am prepared to issue a revised, cut, version of those episodes to the web sites whose owners are collecting my output. Email me if you are not happy. Anyone who wishes to introduce me forcefully to the Clue Desk may do so. =================================================================