TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 33
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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 33. The other day I forgot to mention I was
going through my closet and came upon the Pocket Pussy. This is
a disgusting little silicone rubber tidbit I had Miss Kooky buy
for me to give to my PT at The ERR. Neil had been whining about
how, since they got the baby and all, his ole lady didn't want to
play.
I terminally embarrassed him giving him that thing but he finally
took it home, afraid that his wife would see it. I told him this
was the idea, to let her know if she doesn't want to cooperate,
she can be replaced. But he chickened out and gave it back. He
didn't even keep the complimentary tube of KY. He could have
used that for the wanking he's forced into.
I was going to have Miss Kooky give it to this other queen we
know by the name of Miss Crunt, just to start a bitchfight
because the old cow hasn't come to see me once since I been laid
up in the tardfarm. Anyway, I showed it to Miss Ralph who just
came unglued. I thought the girl was going to laugh her ass off.
We decided it might be interesting to tease Roger with it because
neither of us can figure him out. Roger was my nurse last night
and once again took the opportunity to emolient-ize my full moon.
This time he did it with a jar of what looked like butch wax.
That's a stiff pomade the jocks of my youth used to make their
crewcuts stand up tall. I don't know what it is with this boy
that he likes to smear goo on my ass so much, but, Glub bless'm,
he should have a good time!
My computer and most of the lights just went dea
They are testing the reserve generator. I sounds like it's
hitting on five of six most of the time. The stink of the
exhaust is pretty good, too. It's like having your patio next to
a bus station. The place has been embarrassed in the past when
the State came here and the damned thing wouldn't even start.
This time it at least started. Yes, the State is due to inspect
the place in a couple of weeks from what I hear.
How nice of them to give the joint the opportunity to fix things
they got written up for last time, just in time not to get
written up for them twice in a row! That's why the fan in the
bathroom doesn't make a racket any longer -- they replaced it.
This is one of the things they got hits for last time, noisy
fans. You may think this is a minor thing, but at two a.m. the
roar is anything but minor.
The nursing staff is all changed round because it's first of the
month. Gee, and I thought long welfare check cashing lines in
Coketown were the only thing happening on the first. They used
to call The First in Coketown "Mother's Day". I have yet another
dot head for a CNA this morning. This one is really dense.
They all have a problem with shit. It's a cultural thing and it
makes them highly unsuited to this line of work. She won't empty
my pisspot without an engraved invitation. We're going to have
to cure that quickly. Glub alone knows how she may freak if she
has to give me a bedpan. Actually, when they freak is when they
see the generous offering. I am still without form when I void
(a little Genesis humor, there) and so one smart-ass said it
looked like a pile of chocolate mashed potatoes.
"Take it easy, ya sonomabitch!" ..... "Take it EASY, ya
cockSUCKER!" ..... "Ow! -- my LEG! I got a bum leg!" That'll
be The Buzzard across the hall. Now Miss Dot Head is over there
mistreating _him_. Last night his roomie was hacking and
coughing in the wet and strained way peculiar to those who need
suction. Be careful, CNAs, about sucking the crap out of his
throat or he may choke and croak and drop the revenue even
further.
Mr Salazar was up early this morning singing grand opera to keep
us all awake. He did his best profundo during breakfast of real
scramble, toughest bagel in the world, meat which I'll get to,
and cereal.
The cereal today is listed as "High Fiber Cereal" They don't say
exactly what it is; they might be ashamed of it. I think it's
boiled budgie seed mix with ground-up egg carton -- tastes very
like it. But the meat was a real piece of hork. It was slice
off a monster-sized loaf of some Spam-like crud and grilled to
bring the copious grease to the surface. The only flavor was
that of grilled grease and salt. What a day to run out of
preserves. I could at least have redeemed the nastiness of the
bagel.
Miss Ralph stops by to dish nearly every day now. I keep
bitching at the girl to bring back the hard copy of the Bastards
stories. I'll bet she's got them at her house where she sits in
front of her stereo reading them wanking her pud off. Just so
long as she doesn't show them to the old ladies or -- horrors! --
to that shrink. I don't know how Freudian he is and I don't want
to find out. The last time he insinuated himself in here, he was
babbling something about behavior modification. Yeah, I'd like
to practice some behavior modification on Roger that would get me
laid.
Anyway, Miss Ralph and I were comparing notes on the boys we grew
up with and how today's youngsters just don't grow up the way we
did. Why, these days they think their asshole is only to shit
with. You may not have a name for it or quite understand it, but
when Mama pokes your hiney with nozzles and thermometers, you
learn what your P-spot is and file it away for future reference.
Shall I bitch some more about the food? Today's luncheon was
Veal Scallopini. Was so! That's what it says on the chalk board
out there! Yeah, you're right; it was some more of that nasty
ground turkey with mushrooms all over it. I ignored the
mushrooms and covered it with ketchup to kill the taste. It
almost worked. The noodles were fine except they put so much oil
in the boiling pot they slid right down my throat like a Venereal
oyster. Tomorrow evening nursey will think I have worms again...
I went down the hall just to blow the stink off and get a Diet
Poopsi and I saw Cookie next door playing with his GI tube. I
wonder if he pulled it completely out of his stomach this time.
There'll be grey goo food substitute all over the floor because
the pumps don't stop when the tards mess with the plumbing.
There is a new old fart in the A bed which means they won't be
bringing The Chink back next door if he comes back at all. There
is a Glub!
The evening charge nurse clued me that Countess Dracula would be
in to see me this morning. Ming the Merciful wants to see if I
have any blood left from all this fingersticking. It's a bit of
a start to be awakened at five a.m. with all the lights on and
some bony little dyke feeling your arm. Did she _really_ think
she was going to get a sample out of Miss No-Veins without a
fight? I allowed her one jab and no joysticking once in. She
nailed the vein. Problem came two hours later when I woke up for
breakfast. Damned puncture bled all over my nightie.
And now I have a right good bruise on my arm. Nobody but nobody
could nail my pisspoor veins like the chick who did the bloodwork
over at The ERR. Some people have a calling. Sticking needles
in fat old queens is Mary Jo's. But the bruise is nothing
compared with the shitty way the rest of the day has gone.
I got another newbie CNA this morning. I'm really getting tired
of training all this staff. Here it is way after noon and my bed
still isn't made. The Buzzard across the hall has been wheezing
HELP! HELP! HELP! since breakfast and nobody is paying the
slightest attention. The new man who replaced The Chink in the A
bed next door did something to the porcelain throne which flooded
the bathroom. There has been water all over the floor for four
hours now. Where the fuck is the janitress?
The newbie CNA brought me water to wash with this morning only
after a protracted absence doing Glub knows what. Then she let
me lie there half washed for another half hour til the water got
cold. She got new water and nearly simmered my balls. I don't
know what she did with my wash basin after she took that away. I
did ring and scream bloody murder about her running off with my
pussy pitcher. I cannot sing enough praises for the so-called
female urinal which is a Glubsend for us princesses from the
House of Tinymeat. I don't want to lose track of the thing.
I've gotten quite used to the feel of stuffing my balls into its
maw and having the reassurance my flow won't end up in bed with
me.
Last night my CNA fiddled around so long I had to move from chair
to bed in small, deliberate steps to avoid losing my bowels. I
rang for assistance at seven o'clock and wasn't flat on my back
until almost eight. She was partly distracted by Walter next
door on the other side who expects instant service because he
claims he's "private". If he's paying for his stay here out of
his own pocket, why is he here in the poor folks's wing? So she
has to go fiddle with him and leave me sit a while longer.
Finally she gets back and we wiggle me out of my tardpants and
drawsheet. When she was about to place the offering plate under
my buns, I lost it. I ripped the mother of all wet farts. I
sprayed the bed and I got her uniform, too. Then she had the
nerve to get pissed at me. Serves the old cow right!
I am going to get out of here some day. One way or another I am
going to get out of here. If I do it getting into an ADA-
compliant apartment in a tardhive, I am going to throw a party.
It may be a small party because so few people have stood by me
this long. For the ones who are invited, it is going to be a
flat-out wild thing to be remembered forever. We're going to
have Mud Pie for dessert. This is a concoction of smashed Oreos,
whipped cream, and Jell-O which is usually served in a flower
pot. My version will be served in a stainless steel bedpan.
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