Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Blob attacks Nurse Jones!
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Date: 2 Nov 91 04:29:32 GMT
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From Nurse Jones,
Well, I blew it with The Blob yesterday. (That's what we call the supervisor
on our floor -- you know, the ultrabaptist. Not because she's overweight,
but because she smothers everything that gets in her way.) One of my
patients has been whining about his bills at me for three days straight,
asking for his charge sheet and complaining about everything he finds, as
though I had anything to do with billing. But he thinks I ought to be able
to arrange something cheaper than the treatment he's getting.
So I suggest that maybe we could get his x-rays retouched, and he
didn't think that was at all funny.
So the Blob is all aquiver because he spoke to her about this flippant
nurse (that's me). Somehow in her mind, having 5 earrings is a symptom of a
deeply rooted evil that could lead god only knows where. Six earrings maybe.
After my first evaluation, I think I'll tell her I actually have seven
piercings. Heh. She would be DYING to ask.
I really think she's an alien. I simply can't communicate with her. Her
tiny red eyes have swiveled in their recesses and are looking suspiciously
in my direction, and she's decided to attack the problem of Moi by bringing
Morality to bear. Morality, yet.
Which, for her, consists primarily of suspecting others of not being
legally married. Where do these people come from?
AND she thinks that as a nurse, she "lives only for others," would you
believe it? She actually said that. You can tell the "others" by their
hunted look.
What amazes me is that somehow this large group of people has taken
christianity and made it into a doctrine with a god that approves of this
kind of behaviour enough to
reward them with a seat on the giant ferris wheel in heaven, the Coney
Island of the christian imagination.
Actually, I always think of heaven with a certain amount of trepidation. My
mental image is a lot like the golf course at the Honolulu Hilton. The
weather's good, the lawns are nice, but it's kind of blank because I can't
actually think of any furnishings, appliances, or leather eveningwear that
God would approve of. I'm a little vague on heaven.
But she BUH-LIEVES it. And that she's going there and a whole lot of other
people arent. Total conviction. Which goes to prove you can be sincere and
still be stupid. After she made a terrible decision once, I facietously
(sp? hey! does that word really have all the vowells in it?) I facetiously
told her I admired her confidence. Suspicious eyes swivel again, squint.
They look like little eye holes in a rubber mask. "What do you mean?"
(thunder rumbles in the distance) "Just that I'm never so sure of anything.
I wish I were," (kissing up to her to avoid a fight). So she says she Knows
what's Right because she has Faith. Sure. A casual stroll through the psych
ward will show you that faith doesn't prove anything.
Am I up on my Tolerance hobby horse again? Sorry. It's important to me. The
only weapon that the powerless have is the mistakes of the empowered. Plus
I'm miffed because I'm actually MORE qualified than she is for her job. In
fact, I used to DO her job back at St. Hectic. It's just that I'm the new
kid on the block here. So forgive me if I rock my high-chair, bang my spoon o
And I haven't mentioned sex, lies, or electrician's tape once. What did Elf
call it? ObSexSomething? Is that a new branch of obgyn?
Nurse Jones, home on a rainy grey Friday afternoon. A melancholy day with
popcorn is the best way to end a week.
P.S. A posthypnotic suggestion worked on J this morning. I'll tell you about
it if Column Two turns out to have a plot. Which up brings another point.
Some of you have written with some very kind comments about The List. I
really _do_ get a warm glow and go all squirmy inside, (EJCEPT for the
letter from some amateur gynecologist that went on for six pages about vast
undulating seas of wobbling tumescent sweaty pink flesh oozing mucoid rivers
of pheromone-laden natural lubricants and various hormonal secretions while
enormous throbbing purple towers of engorged erectile tissue spurted great
steaming fountains of seminal fluid. I'm sure it would qualify as poetry in
certain circles, maybe the supreme court or congress, but no thanks,
buster.)
where was I?
Oh, yeah: literary criticism. Which I love, BTW, especially when it takes
the form of unqualified praise. Someone actually elected me a Ghoddess (is
there a reason for that gratuitous "h"?). Anyway, there isn't much point in
trying to understand deep, hidden meaning in The List. And there CERTAINLY
isn't a code concealed in the Item numbers that would reveal my address,
phone number, or bra size. I'm not so stupid as to tempt you compupervs
with a code. Certainly not one I could think up.
Perhaps wiser and more learned heads than mine will discern a grand
scheme, a pattern, a rythm in The List. For me, it was just a series of
unconnected emergencies. If there is a pattern, it is psychological, not
literary.
Nurse Jones,
who will see you Monday if my hard disk is still hard,
over and out (click)
PPS. Several of you asked what a gomer is. Originally it stood for
"Get Outa My Emergency Room." It's someone that you know from
the beginning isn't going to live, and you don't want them to go
on your shift.
Gomers:
Usually they're old,
Usually there are tubes,
Usually they go quietly.
You change the sheets.
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