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               THE LAST OF THE TRIALS OF ST TIMMY'S
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Whoa.  Miss Ralph went stumping again for some new business.  I
thought they cleaned out the maintenance cases at the San
Francisco VA hospital.  I came to find out they got a load of
squirrels from the big county hospital on the SF Penisula.

Meet Wynn Leary.  Mr Leary has flyaway silver hair and an
enormous walrus moustache which hides his nasty mouth.  The
moustache does nothing to mediate the foghorn bellowing he does. 
He hollers NURSE until he is hoarse.  He can be heard over the
expanse of the hundred-bed "facility".  He wants constantly to go
to the bathroom -- UHWANGHOTHBTHRM.

When he gets there, he doesn't do anything.  They filled him up
with MOM -- Milk of Magnesia.  If that doesn't make him, ah,
productive, they will poke a suppository deeply inside his
starfish so that he cannot dig it out.  If that doesn't work,
they will shoot him with a four-ounce plastic ButtBomb[tm] enema. 
Meanwhile, he sits in a wheelchair half stomp-stepping the chair
up and down the hall, liable to crash into anybody or anything.

Cyborg Daddy has been much worse this last week of my cosmic
punishment.  He goes off regularly much like an air raid siren. 
When nurseypoo comes to move him to another part of the building
when one part has become tired of his noise, his RRRRRRRRRRRRRR
rises in pitch as his wheelchair is made to accelerate.

I had Cyborg Daddy and Wynn Leary on one side.  I had Ben Dover
on the other.  One afternoon I wheeled into the john between our
room and the adjoining room to employ Mouth in the drainage of my
snakemeat.  Suddenly the other door burst open and here is Ben
Dover muttering to himself incoherently and doing the gotta-go
shuffle with his pants around his ankles.  He all but pushed me
out of the roomlet so he could plant his cheeks on the throne to
sit and grunt and do little else.  They'll be dosing this one,
too.  It's really bad when you can't even take a leak in peace.

Across the hall we have another loony who's had several holes
drilled in his head.  He is a live demonstration model for
squicking technique.  You can see the cutout pieces of bone which
they plopped back in and sewed his scalp back over.  This guy is
overly fond of telling everybody what a serious epileptic he is. 
For all the boasting he did, we were not treated to even one fit.

They brought Mary Quite Contrary back from the psychiatric hive
at the University of California hospital in San Francisco.  I
only heard her whine once all day and this one performance was
quiet and almost polite.  I am told all you have to say to some
of these squirrels are the magic words, Langley-Porter and they
shut right up.  Shock therapy is back in a big way.  It either
works or it is so horrible they cure themselves out of
desperation.  I don't know which it is, but it makes a marked
change in their behavior when they spend a few days away on
"vacation".

Miss Ralph was telling me about interviewing our newest grand
dame, Mrs Taylor.  Mrs Taylor is black, has beautiful wavy silver
hair (the so-called "good" hair) and positively the longest arms
and hands I have ever seen.  She could wipe her behind by
reaching through from the front.  Mrs Taylor is a wanderer.  All
she does is walk the corridors looking for the train which is to
come pick her up.

Miss Ralph asked Mrs Taylor the usual admissions gang of
questions.  He asked, What is your religious preference?  She
drew herself up like a puff adder and snipped, Don't you know a
METHODIST when you see one?!  Miss Ralph explained to me that
among American black people, being Methodist is considered being
quite refined and hoity-toity.  He said don't ever accuse a black
Methodist of being a Baptist if you don't want to have a most
unchristian fight on your hands.

Mrs Taylor is also a klepto.  She rummages through other people's
rooms and takes what she wants.  She doesn't take it for herself;
she redistributes the wealth.  She also thought the physical
therapy room was the train station the other evening.  I guess
she went in there to wait for her train.  While she was waiting,
she had to make a poopoo.  She made a poopoo alllll over the PT
room.  She was wearing the chief therapist's lab coat when she
did it and had it artistically smeared like a Vera textile.

It's gotten to be common for the all-there people to roar SHUT UP
at the nuts out of sheer desperation for a little peace.  Dorothy
across the hall constantly commands Cyborg Daddy to Just Shut Up. 
Ben Dover likes to peer into other rooms.  Dorothy goes berserk
and screams at him This is a ladies's room You don't belong in
here Get out you nasty man.

George is quite upset that I am leaving.  He is terribly afraid
they will put one of the loonies with him in my place.  George
goes around rolling his eyes and chanting Loony Loony Loony.  I
got the young guy Joe and had a meet with him and George to ask
if they could get along being roomies.  At first George wasn't
clear on what I was proposing.  But then his face lit up and he
decided he'd better go for my plan if he didn't want to get some
old nut they'd just brought in.

Maybe George was still fucked up from the grass Joe scored. 
Joe's a good guy and shares his dope with George because it is so
funny to see an old guy get blasted, and George has such a good
time getting wasted.  He can't quit telling everybody, I'm all
fucked up.  I went to Miss Ralph and beseeched the queen to let
Joe move in with George.  Joe has a decent enough roomie where he
is, but the one next door screams all night long.  And Joe's room
got hit by Mrs Taylor in a big way.  With both of them on the
lookout, my old room should be safe from Mrs Klepto.

Mr Cheez showed up a day early to get all my stuff to cart it to
the Royal Residence.  This left me with not a thing to do for
twenty-four hours.  I got a first-hand feel for what life is for
most of the people damned to tardfarm life.  Twenty-four hours of
nothingness was enough.  I don't know why more of them don't
snap.

I told my friend Richard in Virginia I would have freedom Monday
at two o'clock.  He said, Way cool! Do you have your telescope
buffed and ready? When do you expect to get there?  I expected to
be set down in front of the place at three o'clock Monday
afternoon and I was.

Richard continued to wax eloquent saying, Da Kaween's Royal
Carriage is loaded up with all the accoutrements of a fine life,
Beverly Hillbillies style!  Blood machines, pocket pussies,
picturz of nekkid gerrytards, and a bag of 20 tacos from Taco
Hell.  Da Kaween is in his tardchair which is strapped to the
roof of the Kookymobile with used catheters.  Kooky is dressed
like Jethro and is driving, while Cheez rides shotgun and Demon
sits on the roof next to Da Kaween dressed like a butch Ellie
May. 

"We're goin' ta San Fernsisco!  Gonna see a reeel liive Kaweer!"
says Cheez.

Demon's all excited, "Kin Ah git some boys when we get theere? I
hear there are purrty boys in San Fernsisco.  Kin Ah, Paw?"

Da Kaween is a bit crotchety about the move, but still wants to
get there, "When are we gonna get there Paw? I feel like I'm
gonna crack my skull on one of these overpasses.  Just get me in
that apartment and let me get settled in. I got everything we
need, shotgun, telescope, my cast arn cookin' pot, computer,
modem, and a big ol' enema bag that belonged to your Aint Pearl. 
I can't wait to snack on some o' them city varmints.  Gonna eat
'em raw.  Gonna suck 'em down til they squeal." 

"Them's ain't varmints, Granny, them's boys!" says Demon.

"Varmints -- boys -- what's the diffurnce?  I'm gonna eat 'em
anyway."

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