Thursday, October 04, 2007

Well, enough of THAT.

Halloween is coming up, but I'm out of ghost stories! (I only had two, and one's on the Shadowlands site. I think it's called 'The House on the Bluff' but its been awhile.)
I only have one supernatural story left, and it's called : The Night I Took Part In An Honest To Snot EXORCISM.

I've also got left:
Why Bin Men Are All Lazy Cunts
Fluffy Kittens (although this was addressed in part in the 'hate blog' post)
More Stories About the Meadows Family
Mental Illness Serves the State
Ina Mae Gaskin

...from the request list.

What do you want to hear next?????
More of the same, unfortunately.
The Playboy of the Western World just called, and the Biker is taking him in to the emergency ward again...same shit, different day.
Here is the deal in a nutshell:
The man is dying by inches. Inches. I go between hoping against hope that he'll get better and hoping that he'll just fucking get it over with and die already because I'm sick of it. Just sick of it. I know this is selfish. I know there's no way I'm anywhere near as sick of it as he is, and I know that if it were me, I'd be terrified too and want my family too...but I'm just so sick of it. I'm tired of worrying, I'm tired of caring.
I have the flu. If I would have gone in this afternoon, if I had taken him in to the emergency ward, I could have infected him, which very likely could have killed him.
My husband went in instead.
He has the flu too.
I'm scared to death and I'm hoping against hope and you can take that any way you want to because it all applies.
Fuck this.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Delicious Green Dog Have A Portly Energy!

So it goes like this...
Right in the middle of posting answers to the comments on the knish story we get a call from the Playboy of the Western World.
"Could someone bring me home please?" he inquired politely.
He was at the hospital.
It was 9 pm.
I am elected.

I find him holding court in the emergency ward surrounded by charmed nurses and handsome EMT techs. We get him loaded into the car. "What on earth were you doing there?" I asked.
"Trying to breathe, mainly," he explained. "I was changing the batteries in my television remote when I suddenly just got so confused and out of, I just called the ambulance."

We pull out of the driveway of the hospital and drive off. "So, the bars are still open; you want to make a night of it?" I asked.
Just then I notice colored lights flashing in my rear view mirror.
"I knew they'd catch you at last," said the Playboy.

The cop showed up at my window so quietly that when I turned and found him at my elbow I screamed. Then, as has become routine, I handed him my license and the contents of the glove compartment and let it be his problem. Meanwhile the Playboy stole glances out the rear window. "I wonder what they stopped you for this time?" he said.
"It can't be public lewdness; I'm in a car. No, wait-is a car public?" I asked.
"I don't think so" said the Playboy. "It probably depends on what's sticking out of the car."

The cop came back. The Playboy turned on his best befuddled old man act, clutching his blue hospital bag to his chest, ears festooned with oxygen line, audibly wheezing. "Is everything OK officer?" He quavered.
The cop let me off with a warning for expired tabs.

We drove back to the Leopold, and the Playboy removed his oxygen line. "There now, you see? This stuff finally came in handy!" he said, pleased, and tucked it into the hospital bag. "You want any of this?" He indicated the bag, full of Kleenex packets and plastic barf basins and all the other goofy crap they unload on emergency room patients.
He asks me this every time. I've learned to turn it down every time. This was after I had scored an impressive collection of Kleenex tissues and plastic barf basins.

We rang the after-hours admittance bell and watched through the glass entry as the night clerk screamed. Once she had retrieved her wig from the overhead fixture she let us in.

I got him up to his room. He handed me a wad of cash, and I went back downstairs to warn the night clerk that I'd be back in an hour or so with his prescriptions. I did not want to be responsible for her death when I returned and rang the bell a second time.

The only pharmacy open at 10: pm on a Friday night in Bellingham, Washington is Walgreens.
I went to Walgreens.
Never do this.
Remember the Gong show?
Yeah. Except all the contestants are underweight, smelly and pick at their faces, and Rex Reed is Ukranian and doesn't know how to operate a cash register without crashing the system.

Five times in a row.

For some reason the pharmacist's lovely teenaged assistant was wearing sunglasses. This may have had something to do with why she couldn't seem to find any azithromycin in stock. At some point in the process it apparently became more than she wanted to deal with so she wandered off and started replacing garbage can liners.

I bought a newspaper. Rex Reed scanned it into the register and crashed the system.

I sat down and opened up the front page. Over the top of my newspaper palisade I could watch the high-functioning schizophrenics, meth heads and free-range homeless mill around shoplifting while the managers shouted back and forth over the loudspeaker system at each other.
"Front checkstand code orange!""
"Copy, Drive up, what's code orange?
"Front checkstand, code orange, code orange! "
"Driveup, copy code orange, what does code orange mean?"
"Front checkstand come to the managers office at once! Copy? Come to the managers office AT ONCE!"
"Uh copy, uh, could we get a manager to the front checkstand?"
"Front checkstand come to the managers office at once!"
"Could we get someone with the system key down to the front checkstand? Code Blue?
"Front checkstand, code blue copy, there is no code blue."
"Driveup window, your code orange just drove off without paying, should we call the police?"

and etc.

At 11: 30 the managing pharmacist was ringing up someone elses' order and found the Playboy's prescription where his assistant had left it, folded up and stuck between the buttons of the cash register. He filled it and sent me on my way.

I returned to the Leopold. The Playboy was watching Dancing With The Stars. I gave him his prescription and his change. He offered to show me the latest addition to his collection of tiny plastic cups filled with phlegm all in a line on his coffee table. I countered with an offer to throw up in his kitchen sink if he pressed the issue, and so we parted having reached a detente.

I woke up the next morning with a cold. I haven't been so happy to get sick in quite a while.

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

first flu of the year!

I will answer everyone; I promise. I'm just hibernating, is all. I have the sniffles, the Playboy of the Western World is ailing and the Yummy Biker is attending college. Meanwhile, someone with a pair of pants that needed mending needs to send me their meat address because I have gone ahead and finished something without their additional imput because if you play you pay so there and you'll take what I throw at you and like it ha ha ha.