In article <3475CD1B.firstname.lastname@example.org> email@example.com writes:
>I don't doubt the PCP stories one bit.
As well you shouldn't.
In another life, I was an amateur boxer. The coaches train you to concentrateon each move you and your opponent make. There's really very little thatgoes on in boxing that isn't choreographed, in an odd way. This requiresintense concentration and awareness.
Further on in my travels, I was a garbage can junkie, getting high onwhatever presented itself. PCP was one of the few drugs that took me sofar out of what I knew as reality, tto the point where I was uncomfortable.Perhaps it was the training I'd gone through as a juvenile, but I suspectit was more the fact that PCP snapped the synapses that allow one to functionin a normal way.
These busted synapses are what makes one have the super strength thatis often reported in cases where PCP suspects are apprehended. The basiccontrol mechanisms are thrown out of whack, and the reluctance to do thingsyou wouldn't ordinarily do leaves you.
In a bout between a skilled boxer and someone on PCP, I'd take the dopehead,even one not that well conditioned.
I've been around the block, but PCP scares the hell out of me.
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> Sharv@burpleson.afb.govwrites:
Every time I see this sig, it reminds me of a job I held years ago ina tannery, as a split-n-shave receiver.
I worked with an ol' black man with no teeth, named Charles, but wheneverhe said it, it sounded like 'Sharv.'
>ObOuch: Another boxer-shorts failure this morning, this one while already
>dressed. Was already out of the house when I heard a distinct ripwhen
>bending to pick up dropped housekeys. Ended up inadvertantly lengthening
>the frontal opening flap, thus allowing my nutsac to flop outward,only to
>get strangled when I sit down again. I gotta invest in some new shorts.
Or, lose some fuckin' weight! Xrist, man, boxers were *invented* tokeep the nutsack area loose.
I quit wearing underwear back in the early 70s, as a weapon againstthe muggy heat in the tropical climate I was stationed in, as a 'Defenderof the Country' when I got sick of my testicles sticking to my thighs.The freedom comes at a price, though; I've prolly zipped the undersideof my schwantzer more than anyone here, and there ain't much that hurtsmore than putting metal through the tender skin of the ol' glans!
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Rotes Sapiens) writes:
>The five food groups are not beer, pizza, burgers, chips and
No shit. They are;
Nicotine, caffeine, alcohol and cholesterol.
A typical day in the life of this particular pig consists of rollin'out of the warmth of me bed, turning on the teakettle and jumping in theshower. After washing the scum off the previous day's activities, I lighta smoke, steep the tea and toss a couple of eggs in the pan. When the fuckin'punks are cooked to my liking, I throw 'em in between a pair of bread slices,which are literally slathered with either butter or margarine. Pour thetea through a strainer, add a double shot of whatever brandy I have inthe house. Most days, it's Christian Brothers.
Sometimes, when the money ain't funny, it's Courvoisier, and those aregood days, indeed. Mix ingredients well, and hit the bricks for whateverthe day may send.
Now, this breakfast is NOT without its drawbacks. Between the alcohol,which is a natural laxative, and the caffeine, which is an intestinal stimulant,and the fucking eggs and butter, which greases your asshole quite nicely,all systems are go. Usually about a 1/2 hour before you get to work.
The older I get, the harder it is to deal with the last segment of theprevious paragraph. But, one does what one has to, and I ain't never shitin the car yet, at least since reaching adulthood.
Criticize my diet all you care to, but it sure beats a tofu omelette.
We ain't gonna live forever, and it's our duty, as the alt.tastelessvanguard, to be as hedonistic as we can be, and use up all the resourcesof the EarthMother before we take our dirt naps.
In article <email@example.com> Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1](Ubiquitous) writes:
>Am I the only one who inspects freshly-used kleenex the
>same way as freshly-used toilet paper?
No way, pal. I do, simply because I often get nosebleeds from the thinblood that comes from too much ethyl in my bloodstream.
Ever the conservationist, when I'm giving my morning offering to God,I'll blow my nose, inspect it, and use that piece for my first wipe.
Piggie sez: Do not reverse the order. DO NOT REVERSE THE ORDER!!
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org>bughunter@earthlink_nospam.net (Rick Cross) writes:
>In front of the toilet was a steaming-fresh pile of barely-digestedfried
>rice. Not just a few gobbets graced the tile. At least a half-gallonof
>yellowish-brown grains, diced carrots, peas, fried egg, and what musthave
>been shrimp, lay in a rather neat pile, thanks to its starchy
Norman fuckin' Salerno. (shudder) You just gave me a flashback.
I may have told you that I spent several of my formative years as aRoman Catholic student, grades K-3. I went to a rather low rent boardingschool in Saint Looie (A rather shabby city in the US, for our non-Americans).The food was atrocious, as they wuz LOWBUDGET, and run by a sadistic groupof nuns. Tuesday, they had beans and weenies, and Norman was a chubby littlecunt. He was also a redhead, and while that ain't all that unusual in aCatholic school, it's a bit odd for a kid with an Italian last name. Hisnickname was mailman, as his Dago daddy couldn't have borne such an atrocity.I'm surprised that he didn't have an accident in the bathtub as a baby,but I'm glad he didn't, cuz I wouldn't have this memory.
Anyways, Fat Norman lurved beans and franks, and he managed to slurpenough of that slop down to give him a helluva bellyache, to which he counteredby blowing his abdominal contents all over the floor of one of the bathroomstalls, which spread over into the boundary of another. I happened to bethere at the same time, and the stench was cloying, and almost made myuntasteless (as yet) stomach attempt to duplicate his feat. I couldn'thave, though, because the volume rivalled that of many full sized adultsI've known. The stuff hadn't really gone through the digestive processvery well, and looked a lot like it did when it was served. But then, mostof the offerings from Hells Kitchen had that ability to look like pukewhen it was slopped on yer plate.
They sent him back to the dorm for the rest of the day. Lucky bastard.
I don't know what happened to him, but I bet he's won his share of pieeating contests. Or, he's dead, which is preferable.
In article <01bd0fd8$45b22fa0$LocalHost@kruge> "Kruge, aka MichaelBriel" <UZSYDF@uni-bonn.de> writes:
>Thing is this: I got few reactions on my recent postings and I
>suspect, that not everything actually does appear in the NG actually
>(am i making any sense?)
Not every post requires a response. Sometimes, the post is so dimwitted,it's ignored outta principle. Sometimes, it's so completely fabulous thatthere's nothing more to add. And then, there are some so mediocre as tobe read, but not absorbed.
It's up to you to finger out which classification you fall into, buta lack of response doesn't automatically default into people not havingseen your postings.
Merry Xmas, you Jewkilling bastard.
ObT: The ol' lady's back at her mom's, and I'm developing my annualcase of diarrhea, from eating a diet of canned chili, Vienna sausages andthe Christian Brothers' very best product. I love this week away from her,as I get to relive my glorious bachelor days of eating out of pans, so'sI don't have to do dishes. Not making the fuckin' bed until the day beforeshe gets back. Puking off the side deck. Getting bent on pot with the downstairsneighbor, and picking the dogshit out of the treads of my tennies thatwas picked up by walking up the walk in tthe dark. The old canine has reachedthe point where he just drops turds while he's out walking around, andit's just a matter of time before he gets his date with the veterinaryKevorkian.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Julian Macassey) writes:
> One question about your marriage to the loon.
> Was she a memorable fuck?
One would hope so. My second wife, the cokewhore, carries my hatredwith her wherever she goes, but I gotta admit; the bitch could do thingswith a dick that'd make me forget just how fucked up in the head she was.
ObT: I woke up this morning to a smell like I'd stuck my head into theworld's skankiest snatch. I'd caught a whiff of it earlier yesterday, butit hadn't reached that level where I couldn't just ignore it. This morning,though, it was unmistakably overbearing, and I traced the smell to theoven, inside of which I'd placed a half pound of shrimp to defrost. Fourdays later, with its decomposition aided by the gas pilot light, I hada bagful of drippy and extremely smelly gel-like substance.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Jonathan Blaque) writes:
>So long as you don't mind an occasional dead Bwana
>post, I think we can co-exist rather nicely -- without
>the eggshell carpeting, at that.
Mighty white of you, Bwana.
>Survival of the Fittest, right?
The rabble still scurry under foot, simply because of numbers.
I knew a bitch back in St. Louis that was convinced that her husbandwas tryin' to kill her, simply because he would invite her to his thriceyearly deer hunts.
She wouldn't go with him. He went with his friends. I fucked her. Shewas good in the sack.
Then, I ate the deer he brought home. That was one generous motherfucker.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Hank Blake) writes:
>ObT: Stepped in a dog turd in my bare feet today. Actually I didn't,but
>it paints a tasteless picture, and I couldn't conjure anything elseup.
>I coulda said I stepped in it, and not 'fessed up, and none of you
>fuckers woulda known the difference. Weird, huh? How do you know *any*
>of this shit posted here is true?
Well, most of the folks here seem pretty smart, and I doubt that theywould just make this shit up.
I've stepped on a banana slug wit' no shoes on, and the fuckers tendto be barbed on the outside, causing them to cling to yer toes in a mostserious manner.
Some dumb dingleberry stepped on a doggie treat on the way to whereI go to school to learn to be a functioning member of society. I didn'tsee it, mind ya, but I saw where the poor bastard had draggged his feetalong the sidewalk, trying to smear that shit off of the bottom of hisfeet.
The old dog who lives downstairs from me has gotten to the point wherehe just walks along and drops a grogan in indiscriminate places. Said placessometimes find themselves under my fuckin' shoes, tending to piss off thislittle piggie. They don't make Depends for Dogggies, but it's a conceptwhose time has come out of necessity.
You think that we're all bullshittin' you when we post this stuff? You'rewrong, Hank. There's a segment of society that has seen more of what lifehas to offer than most people really want to see, simply cuz it's too hardto avoid.
Like Mom said, "Everyone's entitled to their own stupid opinion."
Ask me where I've been. Tell me to shut the fuck up when I get to thearea where you get uncomfortable.
Some people read about life. Some people are written about. While Ican't lay claim to the second segment, I ain't part of the non-participants.Life's too short to make up stories that you can actually create, but you
know that already.
Dontcha? Sure, you do.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Hank Blake) writes:
>So what's good vodka to you, Vinnie?
Stolichnaya. With a squeeze, if ya please.
ObT: Try a diet of bologna sammitches and brandy for a week, and tellme how your anal expulsions smell. I ain't sniffed nuthin' quite like it.
Don't get me wrong here, you silly fucks. I don't spend a lotta timesniffin' the contents of public toilets, but certain dietary habits makefor foul-smellin' shit. Drop into (heh) any public restroom at yer neighborhoodgas station and report the results.
I think I might be dying inside, but so are the rest of you. Live (ordie) with it.
>> "Wes Payne" <email@example.com> wrote:
>> >> What's your point, piggy? You're [...] maybe hoping to hoistme on my
>> >> own petard?
This is the fourth reply to Wes' message, but since I never saw theoriginal, I'll ask him to email it to me or repost it. My efforts at attemptingto mail him have resulted in bounced messages.
I ain't sure what exactly he is challenging here, but I'd like to be.I don't recall trying to hoist any retards, but I forget a lotta stuff.
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> email@example.com (KazuoFujii) writes:
>Bullshit Kruge! I have been to Nazi land several times and seen youfat fucks
>on vacation in Asia. The Germans are by far the fattest animals thatinhabit
>this orbiting toilet. Especially the child molestors who frequentS.E. Asia
>for sick delights. Keep on eating!!
I dunno, Kazzy. If you believe what you read, us Americans are the fattestfolks on Earth, but I'm doing my part, by virtue of already shedding the12 pounds I accumulated during the eggnog season.
A steady diet of rum and vodka is prolly the reason, and I think thatphysicians the world over should incorporate large volumes of 80proof poisoninto any diet plan, if for no other reason than that it makes the dieterforget to eat.
The woman I love sez that I should eat more. Much like everything elseI do in my life, however, eating is a binge thangg, and I can sit downto a gargantuan feast and power down two pounds of chow at a sitting, butthen not eat for two days. The astute reader realizes that this makes forsome classic offerings to the lord of the Porcelain Bus, and when I'm ona run, I can shit nothing but bile for 4-5 servings a day.
Alcohol is also a great laxative. I learned this valuable lesson inmy last stint in rehab, where I shit maybe six or seven times during my30 day stay. The attending physician explained away my affliction by tellinggme that sudden withdrawal from liver sustenance tends to make all the digestivefunctions kinda freeze up. It's also the only time I shoved something upmy poopchute, but they keep ShitBombs on hand for just such situations,as it is SOP there.
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Notorious P.I.G.)
Subject: Re: Nana Takes a Dirt Nap
Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login:guest)
In article <34BD3E19.2FE4@hotmail.com> email@example.com writes:
(A beautiful piece of work snipped, but not without giving
it the complimentary treatment it deserves.)
I got a piece of mail from someone here who has been posting under anassumed address, telling me that I could verify who he really was. It bounced,but he's welcome to resend it in a format that I can reply to. He knowswho he is, and I bear him no ill will.
ObT: Little Vanna got smacked by a car on Wednesday. I call her thatbecause she is a crossing guard at one of the local schools, and prancesacross the crosswalk exactly like that dumb, numb whore who turns the letterson Wheel of Fortune, a rather sad televised version of 'Trivial Pursuit.'
A busted leg and a dislocated hip. I'd love to lick her little beaveras she lays in the bed, swacked out on the best pharmaceutical opiatesher employer can afford. I want her to scream my name, instead of God's,as I send her into multiple orgasms with my magic tongue.
In article <34DC2642.4C94@earthlink.net> firstname.lastname@example.org writes:
>Ralph Jones wrote:
>> If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people who puke in sinks.
>> Ralph Jones
>Why? It's nothing a little piss won't wash down.
Not unless you piss Draino, Polock.
My ex-fuckbuddy had a son she had no control over. At 15 he was a dedicatedgarbage can junkie. His main diet was beer and pizza, and one night hedeposited a goodly and impressive mixed specimen. A loud shriek from thespunkbucket told me to get the fuck out of bed and see what the commotionwas about. I didn't grab the axe handle that lives by my bed, cuz it soundedinternal.
Halfway down the hall. I recognized the smell of beer, bile and pizza.Since it was wintertime in a house with limited ability to keep thingsanywhere approaching warm in the outer areas in the house, the offeringhad congealed and was thick as a solid shit.
I'm usually pretty mellow when dealing with other people's kids, butyou gotta draw a line somewhere. This time, I said, "You're gonna cleanthis shit up. That was not a question." "I'm afraid that it'll make mesick again if I try that."
"You're going to feel a hell of a lot worse if this sink isn't runningsmoothly in 20 minutes."
"I don't know where the plunger is."
(under his breath) "Asshole." 12 minutes or so later, the sink was runnin'just fuckin' ducky. Go figure. His mother has the backbone of an amoeba,so she never knew the value I'd put into her son, and we broke up shortlyafterward. Last I heard, he was transferred to a group home down South,which is the Peeve: Most kids just need to be guided. These modern dayparents want to treat their kids with respect, and the mental or physicalbackhand of reality is relegated to the class of barbarianism.
I ain't spanked my daughter since she was 5-6 years old. She's quitewell behaved, and understands the laws of cause and effect, which was whatI wanted. Her mom. on the other hand, doesn't command that kind of respect.because she feels that kids should have more say in what they are allowedto do. She think's I'm stifling the child's growth, but she didn't growup in street gangs, and is oblivious to the sheer number of opportunitiesavailable to impressionable young kids in a less than reputable neighborhood.I'm not, and I want my kid to know that there are forces that slurp upnaive little chicks like her due to their lack of experience and education.These are her formative years. Just how will she be formed...?
In article <34EEB183.39E8@oxy.edu> Gregory Gliedman <email@example.com>writes:
>Notorious P.I.G. wrote:
>> Hagler was supposedly the best middleweight in the
>> division, and somebody came out of retirement, after a five year
>> layoff and punched him into submission.
> Even if you think Leonard won that fight, how can you say he "punched
>him into submission"? Hagler wasn't hurt at any point in the fight.
Perhaps not, but Hagler was just about as frustrated as Duran by theend of the fight, and he was a beaten man. They were both good warriors,and the better man won that night. I respect both men.
As for that punk jackoff who criticized my post merely because of itsorigins, he'd be surprised to know that alt.tasteless folks have done muchmore interesting things than he'll ever dream about. Some of us are ex-boxers,ex-cons and trying to be ex-junkies. There are some very literate folksin my home group, and I suspect that a majority of them could beat theliving shit out of the originator of that post. The rain, she be makingthe newsfeed disastrous, causing me to lose the original post.
Should this miniscule little SnotClot want to confront me in a publicor private forum, I extend an invitation.
I'd advise against it, cuz it's a fight he can't win. Ball's in hiscourt now, and he'll hafta make an attempt to defend what little honorhe has.
Me, I don't much care either way. Get the picture, Pie? I'm smarterthan you'll ever be. I know more about boxing, and life, than you'll everlive long enough to match. And that's the name of that tune.
In article <34F6C6CA.FF1BAB01@amc.de> Richard George <firstname.lastname@example.org>writes:
>THC is also soluble in alcohol - so for a real treat try half an ounce
>a bottle of vodka and warmed gently over the stove. When it attainsa
>light green colour
>decant it back into the bottle.
Ah, my two favorite drugs in one bottle...
We used to do something similar, which we called 'better butter.' Mix,and heat to just before the butter starts burning. Reconstitute in a cup,and spread it on toast. Knocks yer dick in the dirt.
Not verified personally, but done by the same technicque, are honeyslides, which are swallowed directly after it settles back to room temperature,this last part being very essential to keeping from blistering the insideof your mouth.
Undoubtedly, you're all familiar with pizza burns on your gums, andyou know what extreme heat can do. Sore for days, and a bloody tooth brush,for those of you that use them.
For a special situation, make marijuana pancakes, and smother the fuckersin Chambord. I found this recipe by accident, but you gotta experiment.Psilocybin spaghetti sauce is good, but be prepared for overnight guestsand a mess to clean up in the morning.
In article <email@example.com> firstname.lastname@example.org(Kazuo Fujii) writes:
>Nato is fermented soy beans. They have a very very powerful stench,and are a
>gooey mess. When you eat them there are strings of rotting shit allover the
>chopsticks, plate and your face. Vile shit!
No wonder slant-eyed folks are mostly thin. Look at the shit they eat.
Or, better yet, don't.
I used to work with some Filipino broads, who'd hit the lunchroom 5minutes early so they could heat whatever concoction they were going toconsume that day. It was something different most every day, but all theirdishes shared one common trait; if you cooked the shit in the microwave,it would render the break room uninhabitable for the next half hour. Iguess I didn't experience that much of the local fare when I was stationedover there, but I had the Navy chow to fall back on.
I looked a couple of times. One time, they were eating *FISH HEADS!!*The other time I could bear to sneak a peek, it was something that lookedlike a bucket of worms. (shiver)
And to think I used to fuck those creatures...
In article <email@example.com> "Powerslave" <firstname.lastname@example.org>writes:
>I've heard that alot of prisoners really whale on convicted childmolesters...
>I wonder if the same is true with convicted child murderers? Anyone?Is there
>an ex-con in the house? Or someone presently in jail, using the warden's
Indeed, there is a pecking order in the 'correctional' system. Lotsacons have kids of their own, and a measurable proportion are bustin' bouldersfor the crimes against the very kids they never meant to 'readjust.'
Some are good, solid partners who just snapped. Some are lowlife scum.The cons know 'em, though, and most of those folks are analyzed beforethey're analized. Funny thing about jail is that the guards think theyrun the place, when they are merely players in a monstrosity of a poorlywritten story. They compensate for this by ignoring the real problems,and chalking it up to occupational hazards.
Yep. There's a pecking order, but it's arbitrary. Kinda goes like this;
Adults who kill their own spawn
Cops who manage to get caught at something illegal
Snitches fit in between all these categories, depending on how muchthey give up in information.
If your'e gonna do time, do something extremely violent. They put youin a classification of "HighPower," and nobody fucks with you, cuz theyknow you're in for something resembling mayhem. Most of the HP guys knoweach other from the 'fields, anyway, so they get a kick out of watchingpunks with pocket protectors do a hilarious Tarzan imitation.
For the record, I was not on the reeceiving or receiver end of a dick.
So eat me.
Well, almost anyway. I guess there were no free beds.
Breezed into town yesterday, and stopped at Long's to get some stampsand shit, and I hear somebody yelling my name. I turn to see Nick the Spic,smiling broadly and motioning me over. "I thought you was dead."
"Something like that," I sez.
"What's that mean?" he asked.
So, I told him a little story, goes like this...
On April 7, I was sick. Real sick. I was puking up literally quartsof blood and shitting what appeared to be asphalt. That was Tuesday, andthe last time I posted here. I said, "If I don't feel better by Saturday,I'm going to the doctor." That seemed a valid plan, until I vomitted anear half gallon of blood and watery mucous all over my bathroom. Ginnysez," You're going to the emergency room." Cool, I figured, they'll giveme some Immodium-like substance and I won't barf no more. Au contraire.They took one look at me and rushed me into the examining room and didsome good ole probing and prodding, finding my liver had swollen threeto four times its normal size. One nurse said, "I can't find his spleen!"By now, I was starting to shake uncontrollably, as the first signs of alcoholicwithdrawal were beginning to set in. The nurse put me on an IV of Valiumand saline solution, a shot of Vitamin K into my bicep that hurt like hell,and pumped me up with some badly needed nutrients that the internal bleedinghad sucked dry.
At this point, they determined I had lost 40-50% of my blood. A large,Sumo wrestler of a nurse decided I needed a tube up my nose. I wasn't enthusiastic,and every time she started poking it up there, I'd try to block her arm.She said, calmly, "Sir, if you don't stop interfering, I'll be forced tohave you strapped to the armrest." I said, "You DON"T want to be aroundwhen they untie me." 'Bout this time, a couple of burly male nurses grabbedmy arm, she got the tube in position, said, "This may cause a little discomfort,"and made that prick disappear up my nose until I felt it squirming andprobing, until it was in my stomach, where it would remain for the nextthree days. The tube filled the left nostril snugly, so I voided a goodpint of rich, red blood out of my other nostril, fortunately on to a towelsomeone had the foresight to spread over my chest. They fully expectedthat result, but apparently neglected to mention it to the cute li'l volunteernurse, who visibly paled. I had to smile, in spite of myself, but I suspectit came out looking like a grimace.
Then, they started pumping me full of fluids. 15 units of whole blood,6 of fresh frozen plasma. Vitamins and minerals. Antibiotics after thesecond day to get rid of the pneumonia I contracted from puking into mytracheal canal. Lasix, to stimulate urination, because I was retainingwater like a motherfucker. More Valium. But, no food and no water. I wasallowed to chew on ice. The doctor decided that he wanted to go into myduodenum in order to cauterize the ulcer that was the source of all thebleeding. This entailed shoving another tube down my esophagus, and withthe help of a miniature camera, find the exact source of the bleeding.I, of course, was anesthetized, but the doctor explained the procedureas he collected my signature on a document relieving him of the responsibilityif he were to snuff me during the procedure. When I awoke, I asked himhow it went, and he less than pleased me by informing me that he'd haveto do it again. The bleeding was nearly impossible to staunch, as my plateletcount was so low, 58000 per deciliter. So, they repeated this procedure,adding the process of suctioning blood out of the way and zapping it withextreme heat, virtually burning the ulcer shut. This time, I awoke longenough to find out they were successful the second time, and was elatedto find myself sans-nose tube. The drawback was that I was hooked up tocountless wires. I fell asleep almost immediately, or so I thought. Infact, I'd gone into a seizure and nearly died. The trauma was a bit heavyfor my undernourished, swollen body.
The next morning, I was wakened by a cute, busty black nurse, who said,"We just about lost you last night, baby, but you're going to be fine now."I croaked out a weak "Thanks," and immediately started figuring how I wasgonna get the two things I needed most, food and nicotine, neither of whichI'd had in over 72 hours. I was wired up like a satellite, prohibiting even rolling over on my side, so I gave up on the cigarette and concentratedon some solid nutrition. I was treated to a kingly feast of a small squareof Jello and two very small glasses of water. For dessert, I wasgiven the news that I could have something else that night if I could holddown what I'd already been given, which turned out to be what looked likepremasticated chicken with a spoonful of broth, and another glass of water.I was stiff all over from laying in the same position for nearly four fulldays, but the feeling of solid food partially compensated for it, at leastbefore I expelled it with a burst of diarrhea caused by the antibioticsfor the now mild pneumonia. Suzy, the Japanese doctor, shoved her fingerup my asshole and determined that I was no longer bleeding internally,and pronounced me fit enough to try some more substantial sustenence thefollowing morning, my sixth day in captivity. This came in the form ofa runny scrambled egg, and half of an English muffin w/margarine.
By the eighth day, I was off the oxygen and most of the tubes, allowingme to get out of bed and move around a bit. I wheeled the IV cart quietlyinto the elevator, down to the first floor, and out into the rain to smokewhat tasted like the best cigarette I'd ever had in my life. I returnedto the ward to find out I was the focus of a frantic search, and "Justwhere have you been off to, anyway?" At this point, I pleaded for my freedom,and received it the next day, when it was determined that if I was strongenough to wander around the hospital, I could be strong enough tosend home. I was given oral medications, vitamins and Valium to keep thesick off. I was told to stick to a bland diet for a couple of weeks, anddrink lots of clear liquids. "Vodka's a clear liquid," I sez. Nobody laughed.
After a few days at home, the tranqulizers ran out, but the shakes didn't.I was drinking wine, in order to keep myself from going through the DTs,not knowing that certain chemicals in the grape contributed to the destructionof my red blood platelets, and low platelet count causes blood not to clotproperly. This manifested itself in nosebleeds, dizzy spells and vertigo.It was about this time that my old lady decided that I was having a totalmental and physical breakdown, which I inevitably do every three yearsor so. She talked me into going into the Detox program at the VeteransAdministration hospital.
The VA has a campus up in Menlo Park, dedicated almost entirely to drugand alcohol rehabilitation, and the rest are the disoriented and confused,those suffering from PTSD, or post traumatic stress syndrome. It's expectedto lock its gates during the year 2000, as the patients are almost allrepeaters, folks who use the system, stay a year or so, get fattened upenouggh to go out and pursue their drug and alcohol habits, then returnto redo the cycle 3 months later. The VA sez, "Pah. Piss on you, Jack!It's cheaper, and in the opinions of some close to the field, more efficientto treat people on an outpatient basis. So, go find another way to supportyourself."
I met some guys there that would admit, unabashedly, that they had beenthrough the program anywhere form 4 to 10 times, with one guy who was onhis thirteenth trip through. "My lucky one, I guess," he sez. Somehow,I doubt it. So do the doctors.
I arrived at Detox on April 27th. It was cold and dreary, the way itwould remain until the first week of June, as the last remnants of El Ninodicked up the weather, and had summer following winter, while cancellingspring altogether. I got there at lunchtime, so the doctor couldn't seeme until after we had gotten back from the chow hall. I don't rememberwhat the main course was for that meal. I do remember, however, that theyserved peas, and all the guys were laughing at my expense while I triedto jiggle those little fucks into my mouth using a fork. Frustrated, Ithrew down the fork and decided to wait for supper, praying to some unknownentity that peas weren't served with every meal.
Upon my return, the doctor was in. I was rainsoaked and shiverring,and, added to my alcoholic death dance, made me one pitiful looking littlecocksucker. He gave me 40 mg of Valium, and in an hour I was calmed downenough to allow them to draw blood from me. He got the lab report back,and, thinking there was some sort of mistake, ordered another, more detailedreport. When he got that, he called me into the office, shaking his head.He told me that I had an inflamation of the liver. No shit, Dick Tracy!He also put me on a regimen of badly needed supplements and told me toeat as much as my system would allow for the next few days. No prob, Doc.I gained 10 pounds in the 12 days I was in Detox. That put me at a pudgyand shaky 175 pounds, and I could barely squeeze into my jeans. Evendeveloped a set of little tits to go over my paunchy belly. My skin wasa yellowish tint, and my eyes looked like someone had pissed in them. Iwas given 10 to 15 milligrams of Valium every 3 hours, and ordered to bedrest,only to get up at meal times. I couldn't answer the bell at chowtime, though,so the rest of the inmates would go to chow, and bring me back a styrofoamtray of vittles, which I'd eat cold.
My fourth day at Detox, some fucker flipped his gourd. He wanted hismeds, saying it was seven o'clock, and "Where are my FUCKIN' MEDS?!" Oneof the nurses tried to calm him down, meds were at 9 o'clock. This guythought it was 7am, and it was actually 7pm. He shoved the nurse to thefloor, a little Filipino chick. I jumped up off of the couch, but my reflexeswere slowed by the meds and the month of inactivity and lack of exercise.He was into a fit of rage, and blindly slung me to the floor, inflictinga nasty bump about the size of a robin's egg on my left eyebrow. I shookmy head and attempted to scramble to my feet, but I needn't have bothered.He was running on pure adrenaline, and his awareness of me disappearedas soon as he flung me to the floor. So, I copped a sneak on him, and hithim square in the ear with the heel of the palm of my hand, which stunnedhim enough for me to shoulderblock him to the floor. I managed to get hisarms pinned, and yelled to one of the other patients to "Get Darryl." Hewas spaced, and was watching the whole show dumbfounded, until I said,"NOW!" That broke his trance, and he went after the burly nurse, who cameout with a syringe. He popped the needle into the arm of the offender,who went limp within a few seconds. Musta been some good shit. The guyrelaxed, but I thought he might be playing possum, and held tight. He wasn't,he was softly snoring within a minute.
An hour later, I was in the ward office, and the big nurse and an evenbigger security guard were asking me why I had assaulted a patient in afederal facility, and did I understand the severity of the situation?Seldom at a loss for words, I was dumbfounded, and said I'd deal with itwhen my case manager came in the next morning. When the time came, I managedto keep my thoughts in order enough to explain my side of it without blowingmy temper. They advised me to think about the gravity of the situation,and next time to let the nurses handle those types. I asked them how theywould feel when they found one of their 110 pound Flip nurses strangledwhen they came in for work some morning, but I didn't wait for an answer,and weaved my way back up into my bedroom, leaving them to scribblenotes in their little books.
After 12 days in Detox, I was ready to go home, but my case managertalked me into going into one of the extended programs for 45 days.I wasn't sure if I wanted to, so I called Gin, and she said she thoughtit might be a good idea. Y'see, in Detox, you just lay around and takepills, get thoroughly tested and prodded, fatten up and hit the groundrunnin', usually to the nearest liquor store. Not in a program, though.These are for skill building and psychiatric evaluation. The populationis mostly hardcore, age range of 30 to the mid sixties, all hustlers witha more than passing knowledge of the criminal justice system, and somewho were deeply disturbed. The counsellors are all graduates, making ithard to play them. There's a list of rules, most of which serve no purposeother than being impossible to follow. Failure to comply with any rulegets you written up, as I found out on my second day. I was doing the deskwatch. Watches are 24/7, in four hour increments, and this was the firstwatch I was standing with no assistance. I went to take a leak, and whenI came back, a guy who was known to go out of his way to write people upgave me a violation for watch abandonment, "a very serious thing," as heput it. I said I was just taking a leak. He claimed I was to pull someoneaside to watch the desk until I returned from the head. He askedme how I'd feel if there were a fire, I wasn't there to report it, andsomeone died in the fire. I asked him how he'd feel if I snapped off oneof his stick-thin arms and shoved it up his ass, or something tothat effect. This brought a counselor out, because his office was withinearshot of the conversation. I was written up, and my punishment was tostand an extra watch. Stick arm got a kick out of this, and I made a mentalnote to ride his ass at every given opportunity.
The next day, I was doing my punitive watch. I was filling out the watchstation paperwork, and a drop of blood fell on the page I was working on.I got that cleaned up, and I'll be fucked if another one didn't land, almostdirectly on the same spot. I cleaned that up too, and put the paperworkaway. There was no one to relieve me, because the rest of the inmates werein a group meeting. So, I just sat there. The head counselor came by totake a leak and a break from the therapy session, and saw me sitting there,with a puddle of blood in front of me.
"Do you know your nose is bleeding?"
"Why don't you go clean up?"
"Got written up for that yesterday."
"B-But, you're Bleeeeding..."
"There was no one to relieve me. The rules state that..."
So, I go in the bathroom, and wash and rinse the blood from my beard,and blew my nose until the bleeding had subsided. Took about a half hour,and when I came out, the counsellor had provided a replacement watch, and"the Doc wants to see you." That's when they turned the shrinks loose onme.
I have a philosophy about psychiatrists. Their job is to make you talk,and to do so without asking any questions. They have their tricks; I havemine. When one asks a question, the best thing to say is nothing, so that'swhat I said. A lot.
He: Why didn't you take care of your nosebleed?
Me: Got in trouble for that yesterday.
He: Don't you like it here?
He: Do you think you made a mistake coming here?
He: (writing in ever present book) Patient non-responsive.
That's when I burst out laughing.
He asked me what was so funny, and I said it was what he had written.He said, "So, you can talk, after all?" I reply, "Yup. You just don't askthe right questions." He scribbled furiously. I smiled a lot.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for Nefazodone. It's a antidepressant."
"I'm not depressed, Doc."
"Sure, you are. Your behavior speaks volumes, even when you're tryingnot to be cooperative. One in the morning, one an hour after supper. I'llbe checking in with you next week."
That's why I don't like shrinks. They diagnose the illness in a waythat they understand. If it's out of their realm, they stick it in a packagethey can recognize, and fuck the consequences. I took 'em for about a week,and they gave me a headache and made it near impossible to sleep. The nextweek, they tried a new medication, which I objected to, since the lastone had had such an adverse reaction. I didn't argue that I wasn't depressed,though, because after a week of little sleep, constant headache, and theprospect that this new medication might be even worse, I was getting prettygoddamned morose. The new batch made me like a zombie, and I took themfor three days, before I walked into his office uninvited and threwthe pills on his desk, while I calmly explained that I didn't want to takethis or any other antidepressants during the rest of my stay. The lookI had on must have convinced him I was pretty fuckin' serious, and he said,"Of course, if a patient can get by without the use of medication, we areall for it." I bit down on my lower lip, which stopped me from puttingmy face an inch away from his, and demanding to know why he had put meon this shit, if that were the case. But, I held my temper and waited untilthe meds had gone from my system before I would speak to another doctoror staff member.
Two days after I had quit taking them, I had a surprise visitor, noneother than our own Geoff Miller. I was still pretty addled, and must havebeen pretty incoherent. "You're a hard person to find," he said. I didn'tknow I was being looked for, as I didn't tell anyone where I was going,except Ginny, who came faithfully every week with a carton of smokes anda crisp Jackson to buy toiletries and snacks with. I figgered she had toldhim where I was, but she didn't. I was still too hazed out to think aboutit. I'll ask him next time I see him.
After a time, my brain unfogged, and I initiated an exercise program,and I melted about 18 pounds off my bloated frame, doing pushups untilmy shoulders screamed in pain, walking huge circles around the compound,running up and down stairs. Anything to use up the excess energyI had stored up. The shame of it was that there was a bunch of exerciseequipment laying around unused, due to the fear that someone would overdoit, and throw themselves into a siezure from trying to do too much at once,then suing the hospital.
My interest in reading came back, and I devoured everything that washalfway interesting in the small library. I read a book about alcoholismand nutrition, and wrote a report on it that the doctor asked meto write up on his office computer, so he could use it as part of the curriculumfor the program in the future. I forgave him for our previous lack of communication,and gladly complied.
And for the last six days, I did nothing, except wait for my dischargedate.
"That's some heavy shit," said Nick the Spic. "Need a drink?"
I said, "Thanks, Nicky. Not today, though."
Not for awhile.
In article <kgbEzAFur.DL@netcom.com> email@example.com (Stetler) writes:
>ObTastelessCommercial: Still waiting for some inner-city mother to
>name her daughter "Propecia". "The TV says use orally every day. Well
>that ho' Propecia been blowing me every day for 4 months, but I still
>ain't got no damn hair."
That's only because he let her pull her head out of his lap.
Maybe they could have a son named Rogaine, and the two siblings couldcreate something like Bigfoot, with holes in its hide, much like a wornout carpet.
ObHighSchool: Went to school with two kids named Altheria Cherry andTobias Hugo Fortenberry. I hope they got married and created a name asridiculous as their own.
What the fuck ever happened to John, Bob, Christopher, Jim or James.Fuck this Leotis, Marques and Bundini.
Get some real names, brothers.
In article <firstname.lastname@example.org> "M Cogan" <email@example.com>writes:
>Now to get down to more germane considerations:
>My loo flushes in a clockwise direction. Which way does yours go?
There are those times when the load is so large that it goes slowlyupwards. You can see it coming; it swirls for a moment or two, then slowlyrises toward the top of the commode.
When it happens at a host's home, you say, "Whoa. what a drag." Whenit happens in your own domicile is the scene of the clogged toilet, panicsets in, and a frantic search for the plunger *never* ends until the flooris coated with shitty water.
I refer to that as 'Vinnie's Law."
In article <77g9g6$73u$4@news1.Radix.Net> firstname.lastname@example.org:
>It seems to me that folks spend a fair amount of
>time crapping. Has you heard of someone putting
>those escaping turdies back?
"Has you heard?" Are you Buckwheat, posting under a new alias?
Nope. I get up and crap and shower, nearly precisely at 6-6:30 everyfucking day, and in that order.
I also tend to blow my nose at the same time that I give my morningoffering to the Lord, and wipe my ass with the same piece of asswipe, alsoin the same order. The alternative ain't nothing nice...