THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 42 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= "By the way, Mr Computer Genius, I would like to know one thing." [What's that?] "What do you think of faggots?" Welcome to episode 42 of the Trials. Meet Gretchen, the German- born member of staff. I thought there was something odd about the way she acts around me. She was assigned to be my nurse this morning but got super-busy with Room 17. How conveeeeeeeeenient. Another had to bring me water and help me finish up washing my dead old pussy. It's been a helluva morning. Why am I not surprised to have someone not an intimate acquaintance use the word FAGGOT in a pejorative sense? Franny has been a bad girl two mornings in a row. Franny is getting like Hazel at The ERR. Franny knows her time is up and wants to depart in peace. They won't let her any more than they would let Hazel drift off. Franny's been pulling her GI feeding tube out. They discover she's done this at three and five a.m. They replace it as soon as they stop the feeding pump and clean her up. She screams through the whole procedure as though they were carving her with letter openers. We've had two mornings of no sleep after three a.m. The State is due to inspect. Some woman was going around this morning scribbling on a clipboard. Everybody is nervous. We are shorthanded as usual. I hear there are openings for CNAs. Why won't they hire? The little dyke (dykelet?) PT came to see me and ask what was I doing for myself these days. (Nearly everything and having to fight off ignorant CNAs who _won't_ let me do for myself.) Then along comes the new OT who asks me the same things. They are all working to get their charting done so the place won't get dinged for incomplete recordkeeping. I look at Gretchen. I am a little shocked that she is so forward with her inquiry. For an unknown quantity of person to use the F word like that is equally as tactful as saying Nigger to a hyphenated American. I tell her, I think FAGGOTS are just fine; I _am_ one. Oh, she says, I knew that. Then why, I ask, are you coming on like a homophobe? Oh, I'm not a homophobe, she says. The dressing cart nurse comes in to smear goo on my "infected" toe. Gretchen clams. We'll talk later, she says. You damn betcha, I think. Gretchen comes back later with the luncheon hork. After she finishes passing out trays, she comes back and sits on my bed and presumtuously announces, I have a few minutes to spare. (Well, what if I happen not to...?) Gretchen asks, Do you think people are born That Way or they acquire it or what? We went through all the tired theories and the short version of my personal experience figuring out that I wasn't quite Normal at an early age, but not understanding the implications for later. Gretchen solemnly announces, I know what it is! -- When men were first men and figured out what their parts were for, they went after each other rectally. (I'm thinking, Only a nurse would describe a buttfuck in such clinical terms.) Gretchen maintains that women had to show men what they -- the women -- have and get the men interested. I thought, Dear Glub she's going to offer me her twat and Save Me! I diplomatically said, Well we could argue about these things, but I prefer not to do so. Gretchen agreed. She said, There is a guy on staff here who is gay and he's my [Gretchen's] best friend. I thought, I wonder which one of the gay guys is your best friend. I'm thinking it has to be Miss Ralph. The others whom I suspect and get gaydar readings on from time to time are too closety to let an authoritarian hausfrau in on their Dirty Little Secret. Between Gretchen smoking me out -- though she says I cover it very well (BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!) -- and Franny giving screamathons twice a morning for two days running, I think I'll give in and just go nuts. It's easier for everybody. The Buzzard has been yelling HELP HELP HELP HELP about non-stop for three days. It's a regular concert between him, Monsewer Jean, and Franny. He's always bitching about an upset stomach. They've been giving him Milk of Magnesia sufficient to make him heiney squirt three feet. This afternoon Buzzard is mouthing off more creatively than usual. YOU SONOFABITCH. I'LL TAKE YOU OUTSIDE AND KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU. Yeah, on your one leg, you old coot. OW OW OW OW! YOU BASTARD. THAT'S ENOUGH THAT'S ENOUGH! I look quizzically at the med cart nurse. She whispers to me that the treatment nurse who dresses wounds and squeezes the Fleet butt-bombs is in there. They are unpacking Buzzard's rectum. They are digging his turds out with gloved finger. He didn't appreciate what they are doing for him until they were about finished. I think it finally began to turn him on. I get questions about why I am living in a tardfarm from all sorts of people all the time. They can't or won't read The ERR series and the Timmy series and pay attention. Anyone who wants to catch up with the old rants can find them at: http://tiger.towson.edu/~dcontr1/err.html Thanks once again to Dan Contreni for collecting all this hork and giving it such a stable home. Sun, 08 Sep 1996 19:45:46 alt.tasteless Re: The bits that are no more pauless@rahul.net Paul Frederick Schnellbecher at a2i network uncle@net1.nw.com.au wrote: : >THE GREAT STUMPKIN : > : What'ya mean, you let them INCINERATE those juicy bits? : Shitman, what a wasted opportunity. Ya shudda called : in the taxi-dermist to stuff the thing and preserve it. : Imagine the adjunctive value of having it handy at the : clue desk. Well, considering that the amputation was my fourth fucking surgery out of five, you could give me a break on not thinking clearly. Must have been the anaesthetic fumes clouding my ability to plan ahead. : Oh, well. When they fit you up for a wooden peg, tell : them you want the model that is easily detachable. Here in the closet stands my steel pipe leg. It spans me from balls to where I used to have a shoe. I can turn a knob on my "thigh" and make the knee joint bend. I can wear it sitting in my wheelchair, go around a corner, whack my "foot" on something and my future children get a concussion. It comes with a polite reacharound, a canvas "sash" to help hold it on because there is so little left of me it can't stay on with suction such as you would have with good false teeth or from a reasonably skilful whore. Standing on it was really interesting. My _real_ leg hurt. My stump felt fine. I don't trust the contraption to stay on me without buckling and letting me fall down to break something more important than it. Or maybe it will just de-nut me. Wouldn't that be tasteless and worthy of a GIF? When I asked how I was supposed to sit on a toilet and take a shit and be able to wipe and not get caca all over and in the shell, nobody could explain this to me. How do I pop the knee into bent position and hold onto bars on both sides of the pot as I lower my anal grin to the face of the porcelain goddess? Shall I sprout a third hand? Better to sprout a new leg and get to steppin'. This thing is patently impractical for me, my severity of amputation, and my physical condition. It was a waste of US$6,000 which my Cruel Cross insurance paid out for what they call a medical necessity. They denied me a less-expensive option, a powered wheelchair with which I could have quite good mobility. IT WASN'T FUCKING MEDICALLY NECESSARY! And I know who got the kickbacks... ObPissMeOff - People who don't read ERR/Timmy's and pay attention. I had another run-in with Gretchen. Now I know without doubt she was baiting me. I am a self-affirmed fag and I won't take any shit for it. Not only is this Saxon cunt rude to people who can't help themselves, she thinks she's going to get away with breaking the Grand Omnific Tenet: Never Piss Off a Queen-- * * * * * Paul Frederick Schnellbecher 69 Fagotto Place San Francisco, California 94169 email 'pauless@rahul.net' 10 September 1996 Director of Nursing St Timmy's Rest Home 23456 Tardfarm Road Hayweird, California 94567 Dear Sir or Madam: I wish to report a pair of related incidents which occured in Room 215 this morning. The first incident concerns the serving of breakfast trays. My roommate George M asked the CNA known to us as Gretchen to bring him "Sugar." Anyone who has worked with George much at all knows when he says he wants sugar he means he wants Equal packets. It is often difficult for George to find the words he wants. He compromised as best he could in making himself understood by blurting, "Blue sugar." I felt that, by her tone, Gretchen was unsympathetic to George's problem with language. After breakfast, I found Gretchen was to be the nurse assisting me with getting washed and up for the day. She brought me water and I proceeded with washing. When it was time for her to return to finish with the washing and to give me minimal assistance with dressing and moving into my wheelchair, Gretchen continued with patients next door and meant to make me wait as long as possible. I rang for her after a calm wait of about a half hour. And here is where she performed in the way which is so common in this establishment and which is so highly infuriating that I am no longer going to play along with it. She came and said for me to turn the signal off. My experience is that when a patient turns off the signal it is the CNA's excuse to ignore that patient for as long as possible. I am hearing the lament over and over, "We are so shorthanded." Well, why aren't people being hired, or why aren't people being retained who show up for work? I passively resisted turning off the signal. I laid there and waited on her some more. By the time she got ready to come back to me, neither of us was in a mood to continue. I made it clear to her that I do not want her for my nurse assistant in future. I want to make this wish clear to you as well. I find Gretchen to be presumptuous and arrogant. She makes me feel dehumanized and unworthy of reasonable assistance. This treatment I will not tolerate. I've never been able to understand why the given assignments split Room 215. It seems to me that since George and I both require minimal assistance, it would be in the interest of efficiency for one CNA to stay with us and finish with us both before going elsewhere. Whatever adjustments might be made, the present system of Hurry Up & Wait has got to go. Sincerely, Paul Schnellbecher 215A cc: Administrator * * * * * Let's see what kind of hell this raises... It didn't raise any. Nobody said a word. Gretchen steered clear, however. My BG was 168 this afternoon, the highest its been in over a week because I've been Good. I went down to have dinner with Queen Bee this evening. Cheesy Mashed Potatoes and Farmhouse Meatloaf. The string beans had enough margarine in them to grease a dildo. The potato was the box crap again with box cheese powder -- a godawful combination. The meat was more ground-up heart with dark turkey ground up -- not a low cholesterol / low-fat / healthy thing at all. I didn't eat any of it. The so-called Asian Pork for lunch is what did it to me. I will go to bed hungry tonight just like a third worlder who hasn't been rescued by the christ stains. It is getting more and more difficult to get a decent meal in this damned shithole. =================================================================