THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 40
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THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
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Welcome back to the tardfarm for episode 40. We have to talk
some more about our resident froggy-meriKan, Jean [jhon].
Yesterday I said, Please Glub, let his batteries run down. Glub
did not hear my prayer. This wankstain ran that squally noise
all fucking night.
The nurzez were having such a good time telling jokes at midnight
way down there at the desk that I rang and told the one who
answered to see if they could hold it down a bit. I can't stand
to see people at work have a good time, especially when I have to
listen to twang-twang music, Franny doing her chimp act, and the
old geezer in with Buzzard hacking up sputum by the barrelful.
Monsewer Jean not only played his toy all night, he turned it
right back up the two times I rang to have a nurz tell him to
turn it down. It wasn't like I was wasting her time or anything;
Mouth needed emptying and rinsing anyway. Boy, can I pee when I
get pissed.
Monsewer took a clue from me and started ringing for a nurz, so
from midnight until dawn he was on that call light constantly.
He wouldn't push the button in and leave it; he kept pushing and
pulling. This made the audible signal go on and off all the
time, with its tone much like mice scampering on tinfoil. Anyone
who heard the call and looked to the board for the room number
would not have had time to see the call before he cancelled it.
All night long...
This morning he didn't want the head of his bed raised so they
could feed him breakfast. Why they feed him when he can hold a
book and turn the pages, I have no clue. He's all DON'T DO THAT!
GET AWAY FROM ME! After breakfast, my nurz brought me water and
then went to deal with him. He's over there yelling and cussing
like a sailor about not wanting to be touched. GODDAMMIT this
and GODDAMMIT that. When she came back to finish me, she said he
had lain in his pee all night. I shouldn't wonder. Everybody
was tired of his constant calling and they ignored him after
about one a.m. I know, I was awake all night because of his
shit.
After I was up this morning and I knew he was as fixed up as they
can get him to cooperate with, I wheeled over to talk to him.
Good morning, Jean, I said. Are you aware your constant radio
playing in the night keeps some of us awake? WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO
ARE YOU? I live next door, Jean, remember me? I'm Paul. I
DON'T KNOW I DON'T KNOW I GET NIGHTMARES -- I GET NIGHTMARES AND
I CAN'T SLEEP! Well, Jean, none of us are sleeping, either.
I've asked nurses to tell you your radio is too loud. NURSES
DON'T COME WHEN I CALL! THE NURSES ARE NO GOOD!
Jean, you wear them out buzzing for them all the time. They're
tired of running after your dead ass. GOD DAMN YOU GET OUT OF
HERE AND LEAVE ME ALONE! [I am now convinced I am dealing with
an idiot] Jean, you sleep just fine during the day after you've
worn the FUCK out of the rest of us. Howcome you don't have
nightmares _then_, HUH? YOU'RE A SONOFABITCH MOTHERFUCKER GO
AWAY ASSHOLE! Oh, Jean, that's real grown-up. If you don't
leave that bell cord alone I think I'll wrap it around your
useless fucking neck! YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU ASSHOLE! Yeah,
Jean, I'll stay away from you, but you got it backwards cuz YOU
are the ASSHOLE! Have a nice day, dickwad!
* * * * *
Date: Wed, 28 Aug 1996 16:23:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Paul Frederick Schnellbecher
To:
Cc:
Subject: Re: Is Anybody Out There?
I received all the messages you mentioned. I don't think
anything is wrong with what is being sent by you.
Right now I have my head up my ass and it's pretty firmly wedged
there. I felt there is no longer a point to continuing bouncing
our two-queens-bitching discussions any longer. We need new
subject matter.
In the past twenty-four hours I have come to hate this God-damned
fucking dump like never before. Everybody here is an idiot,
rude, inconsiderate, clumsy, or evil. Some of them have the best
intentions in the world but just don't get it. That about covers
it. Timmy's 39, which is not reaching [...] in recognizable
format, tells much of the tale as will 40 in preparation.
I am refining my inventory of household goods and distribution
goals. This is not a pleasant task. [...] couldn't understand
why I need to be so secretive about disposing of the organ music.
I cannot bear the shame of being a once-proud organist come to
this end. It is important to me that these books and sheets go
to benefit others and that their tranfer be anonymous. The best
part of me is already dead and gone; I cannot go back to it now.
Maybe I am having my ass cosmicly kicked for having not done the
Right Thing earlier, I don't know.
You three may pick over what there is, music included, after I
have removed a few souvenir items and things which are small
enough to have with me and to use. Then there will be a sale.
I am sick to death of existing in a tardfarm, of there not being
a place for me where I can resume living -- what I am doing now
is not living.
I am sick of people and of professional parasites who are
blissfully doing good by attempting to involve me in their
treatments and schemes. I want to be with the people I love and
to be otherwise left alone.
Paul Frederick Schnellbecher
May 1944 - February 1995
[Birth and Diagnosis]
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Did you hear the >plop< ? I got my head back out of my ass
where, from time to time, it _will_ go back cuz its nice and warm
in there. I owe lurker Dee Man a lot for putting up with me and
rearranging my whiny shit when it needs it. Glub provides
revenge in mysterious ways; Monsewer Jean didn't play his radio
all night last night. I found out why. Night nurz didn't give
it to him! And he slept until at least five thirty this morning
when he got on that damned button again.
We had a replay of Keystone Kopz this morning trying to weigh me.
They brought in this shelf-like contraption on wheels and docked
it next to my bed. It was three inches higher than my bed was.
No one thought to raise my bed. I figure between THREE of them
they ought to have brain enough to figure this out. They said,
Roll over onto the scales. I said, You have to be kidding. They
said, this isn't going to work. I thought not; I can be handled
as gracefully as a beached whale. So they go get the Hoyer lift
and block-and-tackle my ass out into the hall and then bring
Scales out and lay me on this thing.
It reads 888.8 and they say That's Wrong. No shit. They jack me
back up off it and try to zero the thing. It still says 888.8
and then one of them says Oh, damn, they left it unplugged all
night. Fancy that, a rechargeable device which won't hold a
charge. So they plug it into the wall. It reads TIL.T -- just
kidding. It still won't budge from 888.8 so they pump my ass up
off the critter and set me in my tardchair and I get to boppin'.
But I have the threat they will try again tomorrow morning.
Miss Kooky came to see me today. We were out on the patio (porch
to some of you) talking girly-girly shit with Miss Ralph when I
spy nurseypoo with the contraption at my door again. Now that I
have an audience, I don't mind putting on a show. We try again,
once more using the block and tackle. This time I come out at
226. If it's true, and this is a big if, it's dizzgusting. I
want to be 190. But I am fully clothed with a shoe and with all
this hardware dangling all over, so your guess is as good as mine
what is going on here. It would be lots simpler to take me to a
packing scale and let me drive over. I found out much later that
a chair scales has moveable arms and I could've slid over onto
it. But these people have no training or procedure to follow in
a lot of this stuff. This is the fault of management, and
management needs a severe beating in the buttockal ay-rea.
Ming the Merciful will have a fit. He'll put me on lettuce and
orange juice. I wouldn't mind a bit if they quit with the
margarine and using so damned much oil in the pasta pot to keep
it from sticking. This stuff is so greasy it slides right down -
- no need to swallow. We get fried potatoes in various forms too
often. Because the meat is cheap, it tends to be fatty. I don't
eat meat fat because I hate the texture and the flavor. Yechhh.
My scrambled and fried eggs are almost always just wet with
cooking oil. Not only do I not appreciate the slickness, this
oil doesn't taste very good. As I've whined to you before, in my
case it is fat which kicks my metabolic ass more than sugar.
There are a lot of little things going on here which could be set
right. We'll see if it happens.
Did I tell you? -- the dietician who is responsible for this
food-as-medicine/cheap-as-possible hork put me on a list to see
the dentist! I do not want to see the dentist. He, she, or it
will want to pull my six teeth. I have my fangs and a couple of
others left. It's a long story involving familial bad structure
and heavy smoking which, believe it or not will add considerably
to the destruction of your upper datehole.
I can deal with food (from 198 to 226, obviously) quite well. If
you don't believe me, hold your arm right --> here <-- and I'll
show you. I told the cunt to stay out of my business and to
prepare for war if she starts grinding my food into the scooped-
up vomit they feed The Buzzard and such other toofless souls.
When and if I do anything about what other people feel is A
Problem, it will be when I can select a dentist. As a diabetic,
I need special care -- or so they say. This means more
antibiotics which I am dead-set against having unless/until their
is a serious need. Some day I'll deal with this because I want
eventually to devastate somebody with a killer gumjob.
The other phun thing today was the arrival of the optometrist.
All the nurzes are dragging tards in gerry chairs and us social
cases in our tardchairs into a line all up and down the corridor.
I had Miss Kooky here to bitch with while waiting, so it wasn't
too bad. The optometrist was a sketch. I wonder if he isn't On
The Program. He brought along a semi-cute assistant -- not my
type, but Miss K was not bored.
I opted (with the optometrist hahahahaha) for the severest metal
frames I could obtain. I will use fine emery paper to sand off
the cheap-ass "gold" finish and go for the honest bare metal. I
was correct in my prophecy that most if not all the frames would
have that cheap "welfare" look. Oh, children, they did have some
stunningly awful ones. Whenever you see pinkish or greyish clear
plastic, think Dole -- and I don't mean the Republicans.
He had one yuppie style with the tortise shell finish over
"gold". I know from experience that six months from now the
"tortise shell" will fall off because it's a cheap plastic
applique'. All the frames are made by slants in Taiwan. This is
not itself a Bad Thing. They are simply bottom-of-the-line is
all. I think the best frames are English-made. And I don't
dislike slants because the other night on one of the (several)
Bay Area international stations there were some Chinese college
boys whose appeal made me seriously wet. Their spokesman -- I
wanted in the worst way to just bite him on that ASS!
Miss Kooky brought me another list of tardhive agencies, so I'd
better go start plotting my next moves. As my sendoff, I'll
repeat a retort to another subject elsewhere in a.t. which
pertained to how tards pee. This is how I do it:
Well, you see what I do is roll into the john (bog to you Brits
and such) and, depending upon how daring I am that day, hike my
tardpants down right under my left knee, pull my drawsheet (much
more efficient than underwear of any kind and catches everything
but the big pieces) up and out. Then I go spelunking for my
nads.
When I find my package, I reach in my tardpack on the back of my
tardchair for Mouth, my best friend who loves piss games and
always swallows. I cram my nads into my pussy pitcher, Mouth,
and go to town. After I have satisfied Mouth's thirst, I hike my
pants back up and let mouth upchuck into the sink. Then I wash
Mouth out with hot water and pop him back in my tardpack. I will
go into a tardstall if I must, but it's much more fun to clear
the place by showing off the tiniest dicklet in the world.
You can't say I don't _try_ to get dates :)
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