THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S 42
=================================================================
THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S --
The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation
=================================================================
"By the way, Mr Computer Genius, I would like to know one thing."
[What's that?] "What do you think of faggots?"
Welcome to episode 42 of the Trials. Meet Gretchen, the German-
born member of staff. I thought there was something odd about
the way she acts around me. She was assigned to be my nurse this
morning but got super-busy with Room 17. How conveeeeeeeeenient.
Another had to bring me water and help me finish up washing my
dead old pussy.
It's been a helluva morning. Why am I not surprised to have
someone not an intimate acquaintance use the word FAGGOT in a
pejorative sense?
Franny has been a bad girl two mornings in a row. Franny is
getting like Hazel at The ERR. Franny knows her time is up and
wants to depart in peace. They won't let her any more than they
would let Hazel drift off. Franny's been pulling her GI feeding
tube out. They discover she's done this at three and five a.m.
They replace it as soon as they stop the feeding pump and clean
her up. She screams through the whole procedure as though they
were carving her with letter openers. We've had two mornings of
no sleep after three a.m.
The State is due to inspect. Some woman was going around this
morning scribbling on a clipboard. Everybody is nervous. We are
shorthanded as usual. I hear there are openings for CNAs. Why
won't they hire? The little dyke (dykelet?) PT came to see me
and ask what was I doing for myself these days. (Nearly
everything and having to fight off ignorant CNAs who _won't_ let
me do for myself.) Then along comes the new OT who asks me the
same things. They are all working to get their charting done so
the place won't get dinged for incomplete recordkeeping.
I look at Gretchen. I am a little shocked that she is so forward
with her inquiry. For an unknown quantity of person to use the F
word like that is equally as tactful as saying Nigger to a
hyphenated American. I tell her, I think FAGGOTS are just fine;
I _am_ one. Oh, she says, I knew that. Then why, I ask, are you
coming on like a homophobe? Oh, I'm not a homophobe, she says.
The dressing cart nurse comes in to smear goo on my "infected"
toe. Gretchen clams. We'll talk later, she says. You damn
betcha, I think.
Gretchen comes back later with the luncheon hork. After she
finishes passing out trays, she comes back and sits on my bed and
presumtuously announces, I have a few minutes to spare. (Well,
what if I happen not to...?) Gretchen asks, Do you think people
are born That Way or they acquire it or what? We went through
all the tired theories and the short version of my personal
experience figuring out that I wasn't quite Normal at an early
age, but not understanding the implications for later. Gretchen
solemnly announces, I know what it is! -- When men were first men
and figured out what their parts were for, they went after each
other rectally. (I'm thinking, Only a nurse would describe a
buttfuck in such clinical terms.)
Gretchen maintains that women had to show men what they -- the
women -- have and get the men interested. I thought, Dear Glub
she's going to offer me her twat and Save Me! I diplomatically
said, Well we could argue about these things, but I prefer not to
do so. Gretchen agreed. She said, There is a guy on staff here
who is gay and he's my [Gretchen's] best friend. I thought, I
wonder which one of the gay guys is your best friend. I'm
thinking it has to be Miss Ralph. The others whom I suspect and
get gaydar readings on from time to time are too closety to let
an authoritarian hausfrau in on their Dirty Little Secret.
Between Gretchen smoking me out -- though she says I cover it
very well (BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!) -- and Franny giving screamathons
twice a morning for two days running, I think I'll give in and
just go nuts. It's easier for everybody.
The Buzzard has been yelling HELP HELP HELP HELP about non-stop
for three days. It's a regular concert between him, Monsewer
Jean, and Franny. He's always bitching about an upset stomach.
They've been giving him Milk of Magnesia sufficient to make him
heiney squirt three feet. This afternoon Buzzard is mouthing off
more creatively than usual. YOU SONOFABITCH. I'LL TAKE YOU
OUTSIDE AND KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU. Yeah, on your one leg, you
old coot. OW OW OW OW! YOU BASTARD. THAT'S ENOUGH THAT'S
ENOUGH! I look quizzically at the med cart nurse. She whispers
to me that the treatment nurse who dresses wounds and squeezes
the Fleet butt-bombs is in there. They are unpacking Buzzard's
rectum. They are digging his turds out with gloved finger. He
didn't appreciate what they are doing for him until they were
about finished. I think it finally began to turn him on.
I get questions about why I am living in a tardfarm from all
sorts of people all the time. They can't or won't read The ERR
series and the Timmy series and pay attention. Anyone who wants
to catch up with the old rants can find them at:
http://tiger.towson.edu/~dcontr1/err.html
Thanks once again to Dan Contreni for collecting all this hork
and giving it such a stable home.
Sun, 08 Sep 1996 19:45:46 alt.tasteless
Re: The bits that are no more
pauless@rahul.net Paul Frederick Schnellbecher
at a2i network
uncle@net1.nw.com.au wrote:
: >THE GREAT STUMPKIN
: >
: What'ya mean, you let them INCINERATE those juicy bits?
: Shitman, what a wasted opportunity. Ya shudda called
: in the taxi-dermist to stuff the thing and preserve it.
: Imagine the adjunctive value of having it handy at the
: clue desk.
Well, considering that the amputation was my fourth fucking
surgery out of five, you could give me a break on not thinking
clearly. Must have been the anaesthetic fumes clouding my
ability to plan ahead.
: Oh, well. When they fit you up for a wooden peg, tell
: them you want the model that is easily detachable.
Here in the closet stands my steel pipe leg. It spans me from
balls to where I used to have a shoe. I can turn a knob on my
"thigh" and make the knee joint bend. I can wear it sitting in
my wheelchair, go around a corner, whack my "foot" on something
and my future children get a concussion.
It comes with a polite reacharound, a canvas "sash" to help hold
it on because there is so little left of me it can't stay on with
suction such as you would have with good false teeth or from a
reasonably skilful whore. Standing on it was really interesting.
My _real_ leg hurt. My stump felt fine.
I don't trust the contraption to stay on me without buckling and
letting me fall down to break something more important than it.
Or maybe it will just de-nut me. Wouldn't that be tasteless and
worthy of a GIF? When I asked how I was supposed to sit on a
toilet and take a shit and be able to wipe and not get caca all
over and in the shell, nobody could explain this to me.
How do I pop the knee into bent position and hold onto bars on
both sides of the pot as I lower my anal grin to the face of the
porcelain goddess? Shall I sprout a third hand? Better to
sprout a new leg and get to steppin'. This thing is patently
impractical for me, my severity of amputation, and my physical
condition.
It was a waste of US$6,000 which my Cruel Cross insurance paid
out for what they call a medical necessity. They denied me a
less-expensive option, a powered wheelchair with which I could
have quite good mobility. IT WASN'T FUCKING MEDICALLY NECESSARY!
And I know who got the kickbacks...
ObPissMeOff - People who don't read ERR/Timmy's and pay
attention.
I had another run-in with Gretchen. Now I know without doubt she
was baiting me. I am a self-affirmed fag and I won't take any
shit for it. Not only is this Saxon cunt rude to people who
can't help themselves, she thinks she's going to get away with
breaking the Grand Omnific Tenet: Never Piss Off a Queen--
* * * * *
Paul Frederick Schnellbecher
69 Fagotto Place
San Francisco, California 94169
email 'pauless@rahul.net'
10 September 1996
Director of Nursing
St Timmy's Rest Home
23456 Tardfarm Road
Hayweird, California 94567
Dear Sir or Madam:
I wish to report a pair of related incidents which occured in
Room 215 this morning.
The first incident concerns the serving of breakfast trays. My
roommate George M asked the CNA known to us as Gretchen to bring
him "Sugar." Anyone who has worked with George much at all knows
when he says he wants sugar he means he wants Equal packets. It
is often difficult for George to find the words he wants. He
compromised as best he could in making himself understood by
blurting, "Blue sugar." I felt that, by her tone, Gretchen was
unsympathetic to George's problem with language.
After breakfast, I found Gretchen was to be the nurse assisting
me with getting washed and up for the day. She brought me water
and I proceeded with washing. When it was time for her to return
to finish with the washing and to give me minimal assistance with
dressing and moving into my wheelchair, Gretchen continued with
patients next door and meant to make me wait as long as possible.
I rang for her after a calm wait of about a half hour.
And here is where she performed in the way which is so common in
this establishment and which is so highly infuriating that I am
no longer going to play along with it. She came and said for me
to turn the signal off. My experience is that when a patient
turns off the signal it is the CNA's excuse to ignore that
patient for as long as possible. I am hearing the lament over
and over, "We are so shorthanded." Well, why aren't people being
hired, or why aren't people being retained who show up for work?
I passively resisted turning off the signal. I laid there and
waited on her some more. By the time she got ready to come back
to me, neither of us was in a mood to continue. I made it clear
to her that I do not want her for my nurse assistant in future.
I want to make this wish clear to you as well. I find Gretchen
to be presumptuous and arrogant. She makes me feel dehumanized
and unworthy of reasonable assistance. This treatment I will not
tolerate.
I've never been able to understand why the given assignments
split Room 215. It seems to me that since George and I both
require minimal assistance, it would be in the interest of
efficiency for one CNA to stay with us and finish with us both
before going elsewhere. Whatever adjustments might be made, the
present system of Hurry Up & Wait has got to go.
Sincerely,
Paul Schnellbecher
215A
cc: Administrator
* * * * *
Let's see what kind of hell this raises...
It didn't raise any. Nobody said a word. Gretchen steered
clear, however.
My BG was 168 this afternoon, the highest its been in over a week
because I've been Good. I went down to have dinner with Queen
Bee this evening. Cheesy Mashed Potatoes and Farmhouse Meatloaf.
The string beans had enough margarine in them to grease a dildo.
The potato was the box crap again with box cheese powder -- a
godawful combination. The meat was more ground-up heart with
dark turkey ground up -- not a low cholesterol / low-fat /
healthy thing at all. I didn't eat any of it. The so-called
Asian Pork for lunch is what did it to me. I will go to bed
hungry tonight just like a third worlder who hasn't been rescued
by the christ stains. It is getting more and more difficult to
get a decent meal in this damned shithole.
================================================================= (
geocities.com/sunsetstrip/disco/3645/dakween) (
geocities.com/sunsetstrip/disco/3645) (
geocities.com/sunsetstrip/disco) (
geocities.com/sunsetstrip)