THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 25
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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This is episode 25. Laying off the vitamin pills and eschewing
the garlic in the food has not really helped my LiquiShits[tm].
Night before last I called for the offering plate and laid on it
tooting trombone trills. I did clear my nether throat a bit.
Nurseypoo said there was about a cupful of nice brown paste in
there. If it would absorb all the moisture in my bowel and give
me the thrill of launching real live grogans again, I would eat a
pound of that awful plastic-like fat-free Alpine Lace "cheese".
Even after I finished (I give myself one whole PBS nature show to
spend on the pan), there were ocassional rumbles. I should have
paid attention to them. I awoke at three a.m. just knowing my
butt was in another puddle of LiquiShit. I'll fix you, I said to
my recalcitrant datehole, I'll make you lie in this crap til
morning. I didn't want to deal with the 11-7 crew anyway because
they turn on all the lights and make a lot of noise. In the
morning when I discovered the crud had dried onto my buttcheeks
like rubber paint, I regretted my obstinancy. I had a nice,
experienced, CNA and she didn't deserve to have to get out the
sandpaper and wire brushes to clean my filthy ass.
The story was pretty much the same last night. I farted and
farted and farted and spewed forth nary a dollop of goo. In the
night I felt goo. The overnight crew this time were so Glubdamn
noisy that I decided to add to their workload. This time they
were having an especially bad time because the Chink next door
got into his groganage. From the squealing and exclaiming I could
hear right through closed bathroom doors and a so-so wall, he had
it all over. All over his hands, all over his bed rails, and he
and his sheets were smeared from knees to elbows.
Taking no pity on them whatever, I rang and got them to clean me
up. They sent in the Asian girl newbie. Most newbies do as
little as they can get away with. This one was quite thorough.
She even treated my balls with respect, moving each one out of
harm as she scrubbed away the groganpaste. You could say my
taint, t'was... I can't remember when anyone cleaned my asshole
so thoroughly. Hell, it was so good I was secretly pinching a
tit to go along with it.
Yesterday, smarmy Danny repaced the string on my overbed light.
Now that it is obvious it has a switch, everybody wants to use it
and blind me. Danny is a little bit pissed to see that I had a
different lock on my drawer than the one he thinks he graciously
provided. I told him mine has _two_ keys and I know where they
are. I wanted to tell him I keep one in my bra and one stuck up
my ass.
The occupational therapist and I played slide in and out of bed
again yesterday. Danny was told to quit dicking around and find
a bed that will go low enough to match the height of my
wheelchair seat. The man is not happy; people are making him do
some fucking work around here for a change.
He takes the credit for toning down the noise the solenoid in the
wall has been making at night. I heard somebody farting around
out there a couple evenings ago. If it was he who fixed it, too
bad he didn't electrocute his sneaky ass on those bare live
terminals. The problem with having the solenoid quieted is that
we can hear Franny, Chink, Salas, and some other old poop holler
in the night.
Bee wandered into my room as nurseypoo was putting me up for the
night. This time I _know_ Her Majesty saw my promised land. I
hope she's happy now. If she wants to view it again, she may,
but she will know to bring a magnifying glass. Queen Bee likes
the new change purse Mr Cheez got me to replace the nicked one.
It has a little gold ring thang on the front that makes it look
like a Gucci knockoff. It didn't fool me, but Bee bought it.
Today is looking up. They brought me _real_ scrambled egg for
breakfast. No more of this yellow crud that looks like vinyl
paint scapings mixed with warm water. It was served by another
newbie, a cute flip boy name of Roger. Oh baby oh baby oh baby,
I'm sick sick sick. Heal me with your magic wand.
Queen Bee stuck her head in while I was netting and gave me a big
teethy grin. She just got her replacement choppers. Gee, she
won't have to eat ground-up food any more. That's what they do
with you, you know, when you don't have any teeth. They run
everything through a fine grinder and scoop it onto your plate
with an ice cream scoop. Your plate looks like you have a ball
of chocolate ice cream, lime sherbet, and orange sherbet. That
would be the meat crap, the green veg, and the sweet potato. If
we have beets you will get a lump of "raspberry sorbet". The act
of chewing breaks out the flavor in food. This stuff tastes
about like nothing. It is totally ruined and violently boring.
I don't think I will ever understand this blood sugar (BG) thing.
I just tested 126 and I feel like I was in the 60s, antsy and
slightly pissed off. Before breakfast I was 81 which is damned
low for me in this environment and the way their meter works. I
wasn't hungry at all at lunch. It's amazing what a good egg
breakfast will do to hold my hunger at bay. All I ate was the
potato and the peach bits. The ERR had a two-part tank car of
pineapple juice and crushed pineapple out back of the kitchen.
This place has one of peach bits and artificial sugarless
cranberry drink. I remember now! -- I had three Hostess
Twinkies about 10:30. I guess the cum-filled center will kick
your diabetic ass.
* * * * *
I want to thank you, the readers, for your time in going over
these tales and the ones from The Eternal Rest Room. I think
it's been good therapy for me to get it out of my system this
way. I sincerely hope that reading these tales is entertaining,
informative, perhaps disturbing, and, above all, laugh-provoking.
I recently quoted some email in these articles which I'd received
from readers. I was advised that quoting private communications
might prove embarrassing to the writers when their words become
archived and indexed in search engines. Oops. If anyone has
heartburn because of what I did, I am prepared to issue a
revised, cut, version of those episodes to the web sites whose
owners are collecting my output. Email me if you are not happy.
Anyone who wishes to introduce me forcefully to the Clue Desk may
do so.
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