THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 28 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= "HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! -- HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! -- YA SONOFABITCHES! -- HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! OOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! OOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! AAAEEEOOOHHH. AAAEEEOOOHHH. UUUEEEAAAHHH! UUUEEEAAAHHH! IHHH! IHHH! IHHH! IHHH! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! AAAOOOAAAOOOAAAOOOAAAOOO IHHH! IHHH! IHHH! IHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY! AAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY! AAAAAAAYYYOOOOOOOOOHHH! AAAAAAAYYYOOOOOOOOOHHH! This is episode 28. This is the morning chorus at four a.m. You have heard the virtuoso talents of The Buzzard, The Chink, Franny, and Mr Salazar, respectively. Thank Glub for my new ear plugs. Now I can hear the tinnitus in my head at night and not these fools. I am encompassed roundabout, as the psalmist says. Oh well, it's really my fault. I didn't want to take a room on the other wing. They told me it's quieter over there. Rule number fifty-seven: Never believe a THING they tell you at the tard farm. The Buzzard's head and neck are more and more taking on a cadaverous look, whatever that is -- I've never seen a real cadaver. This is to say it is to look at him like seeing mostly skin stretched over bone. I think the flesh in his sinuses has also shrunken a considerable amount because his voice has taken on a hollowness without losing its power. When he calls you a motherfucker, it's like being fingered from beyond the grave. I went to get a Diet Pepsi and looked at him on my way back. He lifted up off the bed and stared at me with his one eye and yelled, TURN THE LIGHT OUT. They've done it to him here, too; he's in a room on the sunny side and the curtains and blinds are all wide open. It's enough to make a saint swear, let alone a cantankerous old tard. Miss Ralph came over last week all bright and shiny and so I knew something was up. The girl wheels me clear over to the other wing. I didn't have to lift a finger -- just sit on my tardchair and drool with the best of 'em. "She" showed me my new room. (Who said I was going anywhere?) Well, you'll like this one better cuz it's quieter over here. (Does this mean you will come get me at four in the morning so I can listen and make sure this is true?) The "new" room is 80 percent the size of this one and is still for two people. Oh, but my roomie is very quiet and doesn't do anything. (How many dozen times have I heard THAT shit before...?) The CNAs still need room to work around him -- more so if he is as helpless as he looks. And the really helpless ones are seldom quiet for long. Miss Ralph assured me that They would take care of moving my phone line so I won't lose touch with the world at large -- nevermind that ALL my former associates no longer bother to call me up. My only face-to-face friends from my past life of crime are Mr Cheez and Miss Kooky. Become a tard and find out who your real friends are. In my case, a coupla queers. Your mileage may vary. Anyway, I am sooooo suuuuure This Place is going to shell out around $50 for that cute phone man to come back and switch his wires around as nicely as he can switch his butt. This is an offer I can definitely refuse. I found out something new the tardfarms pull. Certain rooms are "certified" for certain kinds of patients. If you are on MediCal, you end up in a certain part of the place. If you are on MediCare, you are in another part of the joint. If you are "private" -- meaning they haven't bilked your insurance benefits completely yet (or haven't made you spend all the money you got when you sold grandma's house), you get the best part of the "facility". The problem is, these distinctions are completely bogus. There is no difference in the way the rooms are equipped. There is no difference in the basic care that everyone gets. Somehow it has been decided, by who we are not sure, that the room I have been living in may be a MediCare room. Therefore George and I ought not to be here since we are both MediCal patients. But nobody is talking about moving _him_. I also think two and two equal four but HappyJuice[tm] might make you think otherwise. By the wonderful ministrations of certification, all the rooms around us are now >>>poof<<< MediCare rooms. That's why they can surround us by these really old obnoxious tards who scream and cuss all the time or who cannot keep it straight for more than five minutes you cannot change channels on the teevee by running the volume buttons up to the max. Well, I guess I'd better get to the shit and piss part for today or this diatribe is going to stay as boring as it already is. Last night I waited til my gas pains subsided before I slid into bed on the slideboard. (More about that later.) I had an east Indian nurse who had never seen me perform this maneuver. She was charmed -- or was that stunned? As is my custom, I called immediately for the groganplatter[tm] and proceeded to make many trombone solos. After watching a few more third-world countries's efforts at spending most of their annual budget on the Olympic ceremonies, I decided I was done and that nothing solid was going to come of either my guts or the games. In the middle of the night I wake up having to pee. I reached for the pussy-shaped urinal and dug around to find my balls. What I found were soggy balls and much groganpaste. The trombone solos must have continued long after I went to sleep, and they brought along enough groganpaste[tm] to stucco a small wall. Nurseypoo was quite gracious about using three wet washcloths to get all this crud off of me. I was shit from dick to derriere. I don't know what to try next. I quit with the garlic and onlions. I shitcan my vitamin pill. I am careful about how much fruit I eat -- and I never eat plums or prunes. I don't eat my vegetables. I ought to be blocked up like a bomb shelter but I'm still as free flowing as a Monsanto waste pipe. They are having to haul my ass in and out of bed with the Hoyer lift less and less. Mr Cheez comes in here every week and whispers sweet nothings to me like, "Bitch, when are you gonna get outta bed by yourself?" Other times, it's, "Cunt, are they still dragging your ass around with a block and tackle?" That's why I love Mr Cheez so; he gives great abuse. Appropos of nothing at all at the tardfarm, Mr Cheez has a new job. He accompanies funeral processions with his great big motorcycle. You should see him. He showed up here in his pseudo-cop drag. He has leather pants with yellow leg stripes, black shirt, seven- point star, leather jacket, kicks -- he got it goin' ON! (Honey, you need a Maglite and a transceiver for your utility belt; the vibrator and the dildo just lack that je ne se quois.) Trust Mr Cheez to keep the f-u-n in 'funeral'... Today for lunch they managed to pay no attention whatever to the directions on my diet card. They know I hate their ground up meat substitute which is freely used to make meatloaf and balls of various shapes and flavors. Today it looked like testicles in gravy. The culinary gonads were presented with sliced carrots which were so tasteless that they had to be in cold storage for two summers at least. The mashed potato was out of a box. They gave me brown bread again. I don't DO brown bread. The dessert was sliced banana in cum sauce. Would YOU eat this shit? I didn't think so. George gave me his banana. Shut up. George has a doctor's order to have a banana at all three meals. This is to bring up his potassium level. George hates bananas. He gives them to me. Lunch was a banana and a Milky Way. The Pepsi machine is completely out of everything and this is the hottest day to date this year. I got half a cup of coffee. Even when they do notice I want two cups of coffee so I have an extra one to spill on my keyboard, I get two half cups. Time to pitch a bitch again. I printed out Nurz Ratched's excellent retort to this Ronnie Bedwetter paranoid schizophrenic socio-tard jailbird dude and gave it to Allison, the med nurse this shift. Allison enjoyed the nurse-to-nurse humor of it and thinks you're totally twisted, there, Ratched. Allison was preparing two 5 cc syringes of antibiotic for one of the old tards who lies there one tube in and one tube out. This is the time of day when he moves, getting jabbed with both those hypos one right after the other. Allison knows how to give good torture and I'm proud of her. I found a ballpoint pen which advertises a local meat wagon outfit. It's your basic nonretractable capped ballpoint except that the cap is quite smooth and rounded, and has a hole in the end. The hole seemingly has no function until you look at the open end of the cap and see that it is a good fit for a common size of lab latex tubing. Could this be pressed into service as some sort of nozzle? Maybe I can get Roger, the cute new CNA, to bend over so we can find out. =================================================================