TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 3
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is the third installment of the crap from St Timmy's.
Wouldn't you know the Dulcolax I took yesterday morning would
begin working after dinner...? I think it liquified everything
including my spleen because it all began pouring out of me about
eight o'clock and didn't let up until four in the morning. Even
when it was time to get up I had a bit more debri in my nooks and
crannies. This batch was similar in fragrance to the stuff
Lillian at The ERR used to pour out of her colostomy bag after
she detached it from her brand-new pink starfish on the side.
Therefore I perceive myself to be quite empty now, colonically
speaking.
But all is now taken care of and I am sitting here quite happy
and sassy in my tardpanties[tm] and black sweats typing this crap
for your amusement. So far I have managed to prevent soiling
my outer clothes with LiquiShit. A few minutes after getting
hoisted into my wheelchair I began to smell pee. I think I
dribbled a little on my polyurethane seat cushion. I wonder if
they can spray PeeBegone[tm] on it or something. On the other
hand, maybe some of that bottled stuff with the wick they
uncork in rooms where they find a dead body might be in order.
This morning I had my first breakfast meal here. How does bacon
and eggs sound? Yummy? I thought this would be nice, too. But
I like things of this sort to be somewhat above room temp. The
toast, furiously-fried egg and bacon strip were dead cold. I
redeemed the (not again!?) brown bread toast with my private
stock of jam. The oatmeal was thick and even warm. I know this
is skimmed milk we get. It may also be ... out of a box! At
least I didn't have to mix the solids with the water in the
orange juice like I did at The ERR.
In the midst of cleaning me up from my tardly LiquiShits[tm]
nursey from yesterday morning managed to leave a dirty wet sheet
slung over my printer and ceedee collection and a wet towel on
top of my teevee. Nursey in the afternoon was checking things
over (she really watches out for me, bless _her_ spleen) and
discovered my bedpan to be missing. She found it sitting atop
the paper towel dispenser in the Hooper Room. It still had shit
in it. I'm glad I didn't have morning nursey again _this_
morning because afternoon nursey turned her in at the desk for
_that_ little stunt.
Ah, yes, the Hooper Room ... doesn't this sound like a meeting
room at the local Sheraton? It's not. Permit me to tell you
what it is, and you're gonna love it. A hooper is a
combination janitor's closet sink affair with a flushing bottom
much as a toilet bowl has. This special sink is plumbed for both
hot and cold water into a short hose with a mini fire nozzle.
This is the device and place for cleaning bedpans! They blast
the grogancrust[tm] off the groganplatter[tm] with the jet of
water and flush the mess out of the sink as though it were a
toilet bowl. Cute, huh? When I get the LiquiShits[tm] they
could just airline-lift my tired ass over the hooper and hose me
off, saving a lot of linens and time. Come to think of it, they
could hose me _in_ as well. City water pressure might be quite a
thrill.
At The ERR they went through several dozen disposable
groganwrappers[tm] per station per shift. Here at St Timmy's
they are into recycling. Except when you are at maximum flow
with the shitolas, they use cloth pads and swaddling. When they
pull these pads and binders out from under you or off your
sagging ass, they take them to the Hooper Closet and blast the
scuzz off before depositing them in huge rolling garbage cans
which go to the laundry. At The ERR I figured out two of the
nurses had to be closet shit freaks because they _enjoyed_ the
culture. One in particular would just light up as soon as she
was told some tard like me needed to be changed or have the
bedpan. Give me enough time and enough under-the-covers, ah,
activity, and I'll figure out who's who here, too!
Well, I'm off for midmorning Coffee Social in the dining room.
Rush Limbaugh is on the teevee in there. I bet the old dears
will be waving their canes and cheering his points. Wait a
minute! -- they'd better not because he and his bunch are the
ones who want to cut our dole (small 'd') and probably euthanize
us all. George was very concerned about me in his childlike way
last night as I lay a-groaning and a-groganing. Nevermind
the stench woke him up. I shall go sit with him and the Spastic
Lady and be nice for a change.
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