THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 29
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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I'll spare you the sound effects as we go into episode number 29.
That glubdamn slant-eyed fool next door started in at two a.m.
and didn't shut his hole until it was time for decent xtian
people to begin the day. I woke up at two a.m. partly because of
him -- earplugs don't stop everything -- and partly because I
needed to pee. When the med nurse came at six-thirty to bleed me
I asked her, Don't they have drugs enough in this place shut that
old fart up? She shot me this exasperated look and said at one-
thirty she gave him Mellaril.
Then two hours later she gave him something that starts with an
A. Then an hour after that she gave him Benadryl. Benadryl is
commonly used in tardfarms to shut old fucks up because it makes
them sleepy -- nevermind what it does or does not do for their
allergies. I suggested without success that, since little in the
way of pharmacologicals worked that we try something from the
hardware store, such as a mallet. But Glub is kind in mysterious
ways. Allison brought The Chink a bottle of stuff this morning.
The bottle was square and big like the windshield wiper reservoir
in your car. It was full of barium sulfate. The old boy is
going out for a CT scan. At least it will be quietER around here
this morning. I wonder if he got to drink it or if they pumped
it up his chooch. If there is cosmic justice, he got it both
ways. Old bastard...
Cutie-pie Roger set me up for bed last night. He likes to play
with the block and tackle, the Hoyer lift, so I let him have his
fun. As he was putting the hooks into the steel bars which are a
a part of the canvas sling I sit on, he said Where's the hole.
Be still, evil heart... Sometimes the gap in the cloth and the
hole in the bar don't match up exactly right.
So I teased him, Datehole didja say? -- you men are all alike,
all you want is hole. After I got in bed, the only thing I
wanted was the groganplatter ASAP. The way Roger fiddled and
farted, I think he wanted me to lose it so he'd have a nice mess
to clean up. Then he insisted on putting my pussypitcher[tm] on
the printer stand where I have no possibility of reaching it.
Oh, I'll be glad to help you with it, he said. You *like* my
little pink nuts, don'tcha, Roger? You're gonna get it, Roger.
I'm gonna enjoy givin' it to ya, Roger...
Here I am netting away this afternoon. It's been quiet since
Chink went byebye to be irradiated. Franny is screaming her head
off. I open the room door to have a look. Franny is in the hall
straining at her Posey belt, trying to get out of her wheelchair.
Chink is next to her in his tardchair ("jerry" chair) (geriatric
chair for you newbies) and he's harrassing her and she's doing
her level best to cuss him out. Gee, Mr Chink, back so soon?
Nothing she says makes words in any remotely human language.
That is why I describe her ranting as the squalls of a physicked
chimpanzee. I rolled over and said, Is Mr Chink bothering you?
IHHH IHHH IHHH IHHH, she says. She begins contorting her body
much like you see from a terrorized caterpillar. IHHH IHHH IHHH
IHHH EEEEEEEEEEE!!! she says. Here comes trouble. Rochelle sees
this nonsense and the way I am attempting to bait the fight. I
always wanted to see two old tards do battle.
Mr Chink begins pulling at his pants. I guess he figures he
can't reach her properly to knock her lights out so he'll put her
out with a view of his choad. I keep hoping they didn't get all
the barium out of him and that he'll dribble gray muck all over
the floor. Oh, don't do _that_, Mr Chink, pleads Rochelle as he
pulls at Franny's sleeve.
I hear tell yesterday afternoon when they took the old tard to
the dining hall for supper he did a quite complete striptease
before his mortified family noticed what was going on. Rochelle
begins holding a conversation with Genghis. He avers he wants a
ride to Alameda to his house and then he wants to go to Oakland
and visit his mother. (She has to be 120 by now and a real fan
of the Crypt Keeper. I bet her condo is in the slant-eye section
of Mountain View Cemetery.)
I just saw the promised land! Da Chink was screaming for
somebody at the top of his considerable lungs, so, unable to
concentrate on the bee-oo-tee-ful boys Olympically swimming, I
went to have a look. He'd got out of his diaper. I'm sorry to
report there was no groganage, but his starfish looks like a
little pussy. It has the shape of a rolled-up condom. Once he
rolled over and showed me his choad. What you've heard about
tiny Asian dicks is not true -- not true in this case, at least.
It's at least two inches across the beam and one and a half
inches up and down. It is, however, only two inches or so long
at this late date. The balls are impressive as well. Think
young bull.
Once again the shades of evening fall at the tardfarm .
Roger is here again and wants to play with the Hoyer. After he
transfers my bigass into bed, I lie out flat and discharge
several cubic feet of fartgas I have stored all day. Don't light
a match in here, Roger, or we'll both go through the roof. After
I spend an hour on the groganplatter looking at another PBS
nature show of little furry things eating other little furry
things, Roger cleans me up. He's brought along a small container
of something -- I can't see what it is because the label is
turned away. Whatever it is, it feels nice on my crack where he
smooths it on and leaves it while he goes to the Hooper to blast
away my groganpaste. When he comes back, he wipes away the
emollient. I then notice that what he smeared my butt with is
Colgate spice-flavored shaving cream. All amateur shrinks please
consider this tale and tell me what is going on here. I know you
think I am making this up but I'm not.
Mr Cheez carried out his threat to dump me in the sidecar of his
Yamaha crotchrocket and take me for a ride. I signed myself out
just like OR from jail. It took two murses and the Hoyer block
and tackle to get me in. I'm glad I didn't have to pee during
the trip. Actually, I did and I wondered if I was going to
spring a leak when we went over another bump like >>>OW!<<< that
one. The really nice thing about riding in the sidecar is that I
can play with his leg and he can't do much about it except enjoy
himself.
We went to Coketown to look at the construction around the east
end of the Bay Bridge where Interstates 80 and 580 join. Then we
went to Emeryville, the Land Nobody Wanted back when they were
mapping out cities here. Emeryville is a taint. Taint
Berzerkeley and taint Coketown. Some guy came up to ask Mr Cheez
a lot of questions about the sidecar. Mr Cheez said if the guy
had been closer to 15 than to 51 he would have dumped my ass out
of the sidecar and given the prospective trick a ride. Actually,
the only ride Mr Cheez wants any trick to have is right there
--->***<--- on his moustache.
On the way back we stopped at a famous East Bay mall and parked
in the shade on the sidewalk which is obviously not open to
vehicles. Mr Cheez said we should sit there in front of the 24-
Hour Nautilus Workout Center with a sign that says, Go to 24-Hour
Nautilus or look like us -- old, bald and geeky or one-legged,
fat and retarded. The shopping center was fun. People kept
staring at the sidecar. I kept wanting to scream at them,
YOKELS! We went close to The Eternal Rest Room but did not stop
in. We should do that sometime and bug Dragon Lady -- Dragging
Cunt as Mr Cheez prefers.
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