TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 8
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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"GET ME OUT OF HERE -- GET ME OUT OF HERE -- GET ME OUT OF HERE!
BWAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAA! ..... Don't tell _me_ I'm TOO MUCH!
YOU'RE too much! ..... All I want is the goddam bedpan for
crissakes! ..... [gets bedpan after being repeatedly told to
roll over farther so it can be positively lodged under her
monster ass] I can't BREATHE with my head down like this! .....
Oh, SHIT, you're so busy! Don't tell me you're busy! Yeah! Go
get the [charge] nurse! I wanna talk to HER! I want out of this
goddam place!"
Hi. This is episode eight of the Trials of St Timmy's. Sally,
aka Evilene, is not a happy camper, as usual. I wasn't either
this morning. Nursey came in and bid Cranky George and me a good
morning and set down our breakfast trays. I have to hand it to
this place; the cooking is a damn sight better here than at The
Eternal Rest Room. So far the pancakes have been the high point
of the day. Nursey came back, collected the breakfast trays, and
gave George his wash-up water. I didn't get any. It was over
two hours before some other nurse figured out I wasn't being made
ready to greet the day, took pity on me, and brought me some hot
water to clean my pits 'n' tits with.
Where do they get these ignoramuses who run the med cart? This
one wanted to stick me at a reasonable hour but wanted to come
back later with my pill. I need my fucking pill before I eat
anything or it doesn't control my metabolism during the hours I
need it to do that, namely, the ones during which I am likely to
eat. Another piece of horseshit is that I can't leave my urinal
on the tray table because the "state" might come in and see it.
Oh. I get it. They think nobody pees here. I can hang it on my
headboard. For Glub's sake, it isn't a pitcher! I want it on
the end where I _use_ it.
Ralph came around yesterday to ask me a lot of nosey questions.
All the head staff members are doing questionairres and profiles
on me for my record. I am repeatedly assured that the
information I provide is confidential. Sure. What they mean is,
they don't put announcements in the papers saying come on in and
read allabout our tards. There are always people I have never
seen before looking in the binders to find out stuff for
Glubknowswhat purpose. Today the activities director got nosey.
I told her as little as I could. So far as she is concerned, I
don't have any interests. I do not want to be arm-twisted into
sing-alongs and tard parties. I have my phone line and internet
connection going now. Leave me alone.
Yesterday the phone man came and connected the last pair in the
street to my jack. Anybody else here who wants a phone is shit
out of luck until the engineers do something like lay another
cable or install concentrators to make one pair carry several
subscribers. To avoid a big hassle, the phone people were back
today messing around in the junction boxes and man holes to free
up any remaining pairs. They farted around and knocked me off my
internet connection four times. I hate the goddam phone company
but I love the guy who comes here to install. He has really
great pecs and perky little tits I just want to bite til the cows
come or he does.
Frances threw a fit in the lunchroom today. Some old geezer
tried to pull up to "her" table. Frances resembles Golda Meir
except that she doesn't have the goatee. She doesn't want any
men at her table and she means it. This is quite strange because
she doesn't mind me. But I guess she knows I am a lady at heart.
Jocelyn is the second person I've met who has MS. Jocelyn also
has had a mastectomy at some time. She has one huge, drooping,
pillow-like boobie on her left side. It makes her blouses fit
funny. She can drive her chair with one arm and go in a straight
line. Ah, physics...
"NURRRRRSE!" Sally is at it again. Omigod. Sally has a tinkle
bell she's about to ring the clapper out of. Where did she get
_that?!_ She never uses the call light button. She yells or,
now, she shakes that bell. I love the look on med nursey's face
when I won't let them poke my finger. This afternoon I snatched
the alcohol swab out of her hand, wiped, dried, and stuck myself
before she knew what was up. It shouldn't be too many more
seconds before Sally gets poked and goes into ESBM (Evil
Screaming Bitch Mode). Music to my ears. Much better than
another run-through of Bicycle Built for Two.
George wasn't so cranky this morning. He spoke to me even though
I had a gas attack in the middle of the night that drove a pint
of groganbutter[tm] out of me and all over my protective pad
right up to my balls. I woke up about midnight needing to pee.
I took hold of my ,,tesorito'' and got a handful of a lot more
than gonad. Steenk. Ickypoopoo. Chris, our dear pooperdoc in
waiting sent me quite a lecture about gassy bowels in email.
This boy has a love for guts that will take your breath away.
You can just tell how dedicated to the almighty starfish and its
ancillary structures he is by the reverent tone he uses. It
appears that, as a diabetic with at least some pancreatic
insufficiency, I can look forward to an intermittently gassy
lifestyle henceforth. O Joy.
George went off by himself as is usual with him, though he didn't
come back to the room to watch Bonanza at eleven as is his
custom. The next thing I know, they are saying the lunch troughs
are ready, inferring I should get my ass to the lunchroom before
all the good places are taken up by the senility squad. After
lunch I came back to the room to find the head nurse (no, she
does not wear kneepads) looking for George. He didn't show up
for lunch. Come to think of it, I haven't seen his girlfriend,
either. Maybe they eloped. I hear tell George will leave the
farm ocassionally and go wonder the streets in his wheelchair.
Could be my groganbutter[tm] episode made him run away from home.
One time when Mr Cheez walked into the room I had at The ERR, he
found the nurse very bizzy cleaning my ass and he nearly turned
to stone. I might have done George in and transformed him into a
gargoyle.
They found George at a rapid transit station two cities away. He
just wanted to go out and ride one of the buses he'd driven for
over twenty years. Since he is unlikely to make "sentences" of
more than two words, the driver of the bus probably reported
George to central dispatch who then called the tardfarm[tm] to
come get him. George hasn't said a word to me in over twenty-
four hours. He is more cranky than ever. When I rang for a
nurse a little after midnight, George got really upset, swearing
and carrying on. When he got up this morning, he banged and
crashed around to make enough noise to pay me back, I guess. The
cute part was, he got so carried away he fell down on the floor
and had to be picked up.
Miss Kooky and Mikey came to see me yesterday afternoon. We sat
on the patio with Queen Bea and carried on such that there cannot
possibly be any doubt left in her mind that it's all just us
girls plus one misguided straightboy -- straight but not narrow,
apparently. Dear old Bea has a bit of a kinky streak herself, so
we are all good company for each other.
When I went for the free mid-morning coffee today, Big Mama was
lying in her extended wheelchair under her table, holding court
as usual. She was upset about something. When the activity lady
came to her, Big Mama was exceedingly testy. I got BM to tell me
what the matter was. Her roomie had got into her stuff. This
pissed off BM BT (big time). She just went on and on about it,
how she was going to tell Ralph, the social worker, all about it
and if that old broad ever did it again she was gonna hit her
upside the head. What St Timmy's is, is Peyton Place on
Nembutol.
They should give the staff some. I found a pile of cast-off
magazines in the lunchroom and read about how Billy Graham's
biker kid, now repentant, is poised to take over daddy's
preaching circuit and game when the old boy pops off. I was
musing about the conversion power religion has when it stands to
put a lot of money in your pocket when this awful guy who works
here tried to put a tardbib[tm] around my neck. "It's time to
eat. Here, let's put this on." [Let's not!] "But you have to
wear this to keep your clothes clean." [I don't think so,
sonny!] "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I'll just get
one of the nurses..." [Good move, you miserable misguided coon.]
I left. I'm tired hanging around all these old people anyway.
Hell, I'm only 52. Let's party!
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