TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 7
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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"AAAAAHHHHHHH ... UUUUUHHHHHHHKKK ... I'm going to be
SIIIIICK! Help me! HELP ME! Goddammit, I'm gonna PUUUUUKE!
BRING ME THE BUCKET YOU FUCKING COW!" Hi. It's six o'clock on
Sunday morning. The is episode seven from St Timmy's place. I
flashed on a scene from the black version of The Wizard of Oz, Da
Wiz, where Evilene is presiding over her sweatshop. Yup. Sally
= Evilene all right.
The bulletin board said there is a Church Outing at 9:30 this
morning. The dining hall is strangely vacant except for four
die-hard bingo fans (also at 9:30) and a half dozen hardcore
tards in geri chairs circled like a wagon train around the teevee
which is showing frantically moronic cartoons. I wanted some
coffee (also at 9:30) but the coffee lady, who doubles as the
bingo caller, putzes around pouring it into little plastic
glasses and mixing in sugar and plaster dust so that I got
impatient and left. Here I am.
The stupid graveyard med nurse came in and wanted to do my
fasting fingerpoke at four o'clock this morning and then wake me
up again for my pill at seven. I made the bitch give me my pill
then, too. Don't wake me up twice. I know they hate me here.
They ordered a new supply of multivitamins. These taste much
worse than the others. I know they do these things just to piss
me off.
I bashed my hand on a door frame making a turn yesterday. I'm
getting used to doing this, ripping off the skin and having it
bleed all over. I just lick the skin back into place and wait
for it to clot and get to steppin'. My nurse this moring saw the
ding and made a federal case out of it saying I would get
gangrene. Please, lady. This is only the fourth or fifth time.
It's an occupational hazard for us tards. Heh. I just overheard
that big fat Sally/Evilene has a sore on her monster butt. Heh
heh heh heh heh...
The big production of the fingerpoke woke George up early. He
was cranky until after breakfast. When nursey went to draw my
washup water, George wanted in the john saying, "Gotta go pooh."
Pooh. Jesus. I haven't heard that expression since I was seven.
George likes it cold in here. The place was built without
central air, so each room has an air conditioner stuffed into a
hole on the outside wall next to the sliding glass screened door
that goes out onto the patio area.
The place is sort of overgrown and brushy-lookin' now. The big
trees and bushes together with the dull green and brown paint and
roof make the place look very Marin. The fenced patio on our
side of the wing is quite shady. This room is already cold
enough to hang meat. George doesn't even want to be in here
except for sleep or to "pooh".
I had lunch on the patio off the dining hall today. Nobody else
came out to be with Queen Bea, so I made like her loyal subject.
She told me about her daughters who are unremarkable save for the
one she thinks goes for other girls. I can tell. Bea is going
to pop the Are You Gay question within 48 hours. I think just to
fuck with her I will deny everything.
I will deny everything, even as I stare longingly at this guy
named Brent who comes here to see her and a couple of other
oldsters in residence. Brent married a young woman who had
something quite wrong with her such that she died. Chris is a
tard groupie of sorts. He's supposed to come paint Bea's nails
because she isn't steady enough to do it herself any longer. I
told Bea I want him to paint my ring finger nail the most hideous
color in his kit bag. "Wherefore?" said the queen. "To make
Your Majesty ask questions!" quoth I.
Anyone familiar with the looks of teevee doctor Dean Edell will
know who Brent resembles. Brent stole my heart completely away
from Mr Cheez (for five minutes) when he sauntered up the walk in
his tan khaki walking shorts and alligator shirt. I just want to
lick the hair on his legs. I'll do that right after he paints my
nail purple. I could do it myself but it wouldn't be the same.
:::::sigh:::::
Now I _know_ Evilene is a hypochondriac. Her doctor _did_ come
see her yesterday afternoon lest she squawk incessantly all
weekend and upset the whole nursey crew. He cancelled some of
her meds and she is fit to be tied. It would take a lot of rope.
I doubt she will survive long without pampering her ulcer which
may actually be a hole in her head. She made no bones of telling
her doctor she hadn't had a BM in six days. I did hear that much
yesterday afternoon. What I didn't hear that our mutual morning
nurse told me is that she asked the _doctor_ to put her on the
bedpan. You do not ask a _doctor_ to come anywhere _near_ a
bedpan. RNs often won't come near them.
Poor Evilene is planning with everything she has to get her lard
ass out of here. She hates this place. She's made everybody
hate her, so why not? She can't stand them over at St Monica's,
the full-service hospital, either. Her doctor over there said he
would like to be rid of her. She said she would like to be rid
of him. They parted enemies. I told her The ERR has a single-
person dialysis machine and that if they have a vacancy (my old
room?) she could go there and be dialyzed on premises. Besides,
Dragging Cunt deserves the Bitch from Hell. O what poetic
justice this would be...
George's girlfriend, the one with MS, made an interesting
confession. She says when they were first married, her husband
took a Polaroid of her and sent it to Playboy. She won the
monthly selection and a million dollars. Then they picked her
for year-end winner and gave her a hundred million dollars. But
she can't have any. Her husband has all her money. She wasn't
always ugly and crippled up like this, she says. She says her
husband flies over this place in a helicopter every supervised
smoking hour to make her stop smoking. She is definitely three
ears short of a bushel.
"I CAN'T GO TO THE BATHROOM, DAMMIT!" Thar she blows again.
Excuse me a moment.
. . . . .
That was Sally/Evilene screaming incomprensively about something.
Just to stick my nose in and to empathize (not!), I went over to
ask if she is all right. "NO, I AM _NOT_ ALL RIGHT!" I asked if
I could help. "NO. GET OUT!" Done. Maybe the best revenge is
to stop up your enemies. Think about it. Could turn them into
screaming meemies.
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