TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S 7 ================================================================= THE TRIALS AT ST TIMMY'S -- The Continued Saga of Paul Ess's Rehabilitation ================================================================= "AAAAAHHHHHHH ... UUUUUHHHHHHHKKK ... I'm going to be SIIIIICK! Help me! HELP ME! Goddammit, I'm gonna PUUUUUKE! BRING ME THE BUCKET YOU FUCKING COW!" Hi. It's six o'clock on Sunday morning. The is episode seven from St Timmy's place. I flashed on a scene from the black version of The Wizard of Oz, Da Wiz, where Evilene is presiding over her sweatshop. Yup. Sally = Evilene all right. The bulletin board said there is a Church Outing at 9:30 this morning. The dining hall is strangely vacant except for four die-hard bingo fans (also at 9:30) and a half dozen hardcore tards in geri chairs circled like a wagon train around the teevee which is showing frantically moronic cartoons. I wanted some coffee (also at 9:30) but the coffee lady, who doubles as the bingo caller, putzes around pouring it into little plastic glasses and mixing in sugar and plaster dust so that I got impatient and left. Here I am. The stupid graveyard med nurse came in and wanted to do my fasting fingerpoke at four o'clock this morning and then wake me up again for my pill at seven. I made the bitch give me my pill then, too. Don't wake me up twice. I know they hate me here. They ordered a new supply of multivitamins. These taste much worse than the others. I know they do these things just to piss me off. I bashed my hand on a door frame making a turn yesterday. I'm getting used to doing this, ripping off the skin and having it bleed all over. I just lick the skin back into place and wait for it to clot and get to steppin'. My nurse this moring saw the ding and made a federal case out of it saying I would get gangrene. Please, lady. This is only the fourth or fifth time. It's an occupational hazard for us tards. Heh. I just overheard that big fat Sally/Evilene has a sore on her monster butt. Heh heh heh heh heh... The big production of the fingerpoke woke George up early. He was cranky until after breakfast. When nursey went to draw my washup water, George wanted in the john saying, "Gotta go pooh." Pooh. Jesus. I haven't heard that expression since I was seven. George likes it cold in here. The place was built without central air, so each room has an air conditioner stuffed into a hole on the outside wall next to the sliding glass screened door that goes out onto the patio area. The place is sort of overgrown and brushy-lookin' now. The big trees and bushes together with the dull green and brown paint and roof make the place look very Marin. The fenced patio on our side of the wing is quite shady. This room is already cold enough to hang meat. George doesn't even want to be in here except for sleep or to "pooh". I had lunch on the patio off the dining hall today. Nobody else came out to be with Queen Bea, so I made like her loyal subject. She told me about her daughters who are unremarkable save for the one she thinks goes for other girls. I can tell. Bea is going to pop the Are You Gay question within 48 hours. I think just to fuck with her I will deny everything. I will deny everything, even as I stare longingly at this guy named Brent who comes here to see her and a couple of other oldsters in residence. Brent married a young woman who had something quite wrong with her such that she died. Chris is a tard groupie of sorts. He's supposed to come paint Bea's nails because she isn't steady enough to do it herself any longer. I told Bea I want him to paint my ring finger nail the most hideous color in his kit bag. "Wherefore?" said the queen. "To make Your Majesty ask questions!" quoth I. Anyone familiar with the looks of teevee doctor Dean Edell will know who Brent resembles. Brent stole my heart completely away from Mr Cheez (for five minutes) when he sauntered up the walk in his tan khaki walking shorts and alligator shirt. I just want to lick the hair on his legs. I'll do that right after he paints my nail purple. I could do it myself but it wouldn't be the same. :::::sigh::::: Now I _know_ Evilene is a hypochondriac. Her doctor _did_ come see her yesterday afternoon lest she squawk incessantly all weekend and upset the whole nursey crew. He cancelled some of her meds and she is fit to be tied. It would take a lot of rope. I doubt she will survive long without pampering her ulcer which may actually be a hole in her head. She made no bones of telling her doctor she hadn't had a BM in six days. I did hear that much yesterday afternoon. What I didn't hear that our mutual morning nurse told me is that she asked the _doctor_ to put her on the bedpan. You do not ask a _doctor_ to come anywhere _near_ a bedpan. RNs often won't come near them. Poor Evilene is planning with everything she has to get her lard ass out of here. She hates this place. She's made everybody hate her, so why not? She can't stand them over at St Monica's, the full-service hospital, either. Her doctor over there said he would like to be rid of her. She said she would like to be rid of him. They parted enemies. I told her The ERR has a single- person dialysis machine and that if they have a vacancy (my old room?) she could go there and be dialyzed on premises. Besides, Dragging Cunt deserves the Bitch from Hell. O what poetic justice this would be... George's girlfriend, the one with MS, made an interesting confession. She says when they were first married, her husband took a Polaroid of her and sent it to Playboy. She won the monthly selection and a million dollars. Then they picked her for year-end winner and gave her a hundred million dollars. But she can't have any. Her husband has all her money. She wasn't always ugly and crippled up like this, she says. She says her husband flies over this place in a helicopter every supervised smoking hour to make her stop smoking. She is definitely three ears short of a bushel. "I CAN'T GO TO THE BATHROOM, DAMMIT!" Thar she blows again. Excuse me a moment. . . . . . That was Sally/Evilene screaming incomprensively about something. Just to stick my nose in and to empathize (not!), I went over to ask if she is all right. "NO, I AM _NOT_ ALL RIGHT!" I asked if I could help. "NO. GET OUT!" Done. Maybe the best revenge is to stop up your enemies. Think about it. Could turn them into screaming meemies. =================================================================