Friction and Harmony

Whoopi Goldberg, you are an ignorant chunt.

I don’t know what the living fuck you consider “Rape-rape” to be, but if it’s worse than a middle-aged prick drugging a CHILD, ordering a CHILD to strip and take naked photographs of the CHILD, having vaginal intercourse with a CHILD and finally shooting a load of semen into the rectum of a CHILD while having forced anal intercourse with a CHILD, all WHILE THE CHILD IS PLEADING “NO, NO, NO“…  Then I thank God to not be able to even imagine the kinds of horrors that exist in your sick, twisted world that comprise what you would acquiesce to calling “Rape-rape.”

That Roman Polanski wasn’t able to personally receive his Oscar because he is a child molesting coward is no punishment – it is not “justice” by any terms.  How people stand by this shriveled old sack of shit is beyond me, but for the record…  Mr. Polanski’s arrest on a 30-year-old conviction has nothing at all to do with the man.  It has everything to do with the integrity of our system of Justice.  It has everything to do with the fact that he accepted and acknowledged his guilt and then fled to avoid sentencing on a crime that he readily acknowledged committing.  That he has escaped justice and lived a comfortable life for thirty years is the real travesty.  Now he needs to go experience for himself what it is like to have someone overpower him and shoot a wad in his ass – I’m sure there will be plenty of qualified applicants to audition for the role in whatever prison he serves his sentence.

But if the American Justice System isn’t good enough for him, there is MY system of justice for an ass-raping waste of humanity like Mr. Polanski and countless others who choose children as their victims:

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From the Stupid Things I’ve Been Meaning to Post file…

I don’t normally post “recent” photos of myself, but what the hell. About a month ago, I got sick of waking up looking like I actually belonged in this lineup…

…so I decided to do something about it. And the best part? This is the very first DMV license picture of myself that I actually like (even though my beard appears to be doing something of its own accord):

I had really planned to be scowling at the camera – hoping to look at least a little mean and/or maniacal in case I ever make the evening news – but the ladies at DMV were absolutely cracking me up.

Of course, Mrs. Who simply hates my “Mr. Clean” look. *sigh*

What I find most interesting, however, is how differently strangers react to me. For the most part, people seem somehow more willing and likely to approach me and strike-up conversation – even when I’m wearing an oversized Nuke The Moon T-Shirt, camo-BDUs work-boots and dark glasses. Of course there was one time when a woman looked fearfully at me, grabbed her two toddlers close to her and scooted away, but that was in the lingerie department at Target…

Weird people shop at Target.

The deed is done. I’m “clean” with no problems, but family history dictates that I repeat the ordeal every “three to five years.”

But I have a question – and this one’s pretty much for the guys only, for obvious reasons, and since I know women already have to suffer the indignity of regular OBGYN visits and are therefore immune.

So guys:

Which of these two women would you feel more comfortable with assisting Dr. John Landis and his cast and crew on his latest blockbuster feature-film spelunking expedition into your colon?

I had every expectation that it would be Nurse Ratched who would play the role of Sherpa in Into the Abyss. Instead, it was a little blond cheerleader-type hottie with a perky attitude and brilliant-white smile. Never mind that she was (or looked to be) young enough to be my daughter.

NurseClaire introduced herself and showed me to the pre-op ‘cubby’ where she would prep me for the procedure. If you’ve ever been in a pre-op or emergency room, you’d have an idea – a long room with short walls that extend out to create little 3-walled areas with a draw curtain on the main walkway that forms the fourth ‘wall.’ She pointed to the gurney and told me to “take everything off and put this gown on with the opening to the back. Be sure NOT to tie it – not even at the neck.” She gestured to a piece of yellow-flowered cheesecloth on the gurney. “When you’re changed, get on the table. You can cover-up with the sheet,” again, gesturing to an 8″ square white, stiff, board-like apparatus.

I noted as she was talking to me that my ‘cubby’ was just opposite the main intersecting hallway in the T-shaped room, so I was in direct view of two other cubbies and everyone walking into the pre-op. NurseClaire flashed her blindingly-white professional smile as she whipped the curtain shut. “I’ll be right outside – let me know if you need anything.” The curtain was gapped about 3″, and I could see the side of her head and her ear as she stood with her arms crossed. Beyond her head, I could see down the hallway. I reached-up and tugged on the curtain – it didn’t go any farther – the ceiling track ended just before the wall. “It doesn’t go any farther – sorry. I’ll keep my back turned.”

Gee, now I feel better.

I started to undress, working my strategy on the fly. I decided that it would be down to the skivvies, put on the gown, drop the skivvies and jump on the gurney. Simple enough.

As I held the yellow-flowered gown up before me, I noted that it was indeed sheer. Not by design, but the thing was obviously aged and so thin it was practically threadbare. I put my arms through and tugged it closed behind me. As soon as I let go, however, the sides flapped forward to my sides. I pulled the gown higher on my shoulders… There, that seemed to work. I leaned forward to pull-off the skivvies, and whoosh! The damn gown fell forward to my wrists, which were just below my knees.

I swear it had been less than twenty seconds after she drew the curtain when she asked, “Are you ready?”

Without looking to see if she was coming through the curtain, I shouted, “NO!” and was a flurry of indecisive motion. Would I drop the skivvies to the floor and risk losing the gown, already draped past my wrists, or would I rip the shorts back-up to cover myself and try again? In a split second, I made a compromise. I raised my shorts to between my knees and clamped them together – just in case – then flipped my wrists palms-up, and hoisted the flowered cheesecloth up in front of me.

Whew, she wasn’t coming in yet. As I straightened the gown and clamped it with one hand behind me, I relaxed my knees to let the skivvies drop. Then, I stepped out with one ankle and hoisted them with the other to my free hand. Standing there with my shorts in one hand, mentally daring myself to lean forward to gather and roll my clothes on the chair, I hear her again.

“Are you ready?”

“Uh… Not quite yet.” Jeebus, what’s with this girl? What’s it been, another four seconds?

I rolled my clothes up and plopped them in the chair then turned to the gurney and picked-up the stiff little white board. Hmmm… A sheet it was, but it looked as if it had been starched and ironed into a block in an hydraulic press. I bent it to work it open, and here she came…

“Good! You’re changed. Here let me help you.”

Kids need more Ritalin these days is all I can say…

I backed my way onto the gurney and started to hoist myself up. I realized my attempt lacked any kind of grace whatsoever as I tried to slide my butt further onto the gurney…  I lifted one leg up, but as I did so, the gown – which was pinned to the gurney by my right butt-cheek – whipped around my right leg like a flag in a tempest, causing me to briefly flash the hallway. My left hand – still holding the semi-unfolded starched sheet-block – whipped downward to protect the innocent.

Hospital gowns. I hate those damned things.

I finally got settled on the gurney, and NurseClaire graciously offered me a warmed blanket – after making me remove my socks, too. Why do they have to keep those places so freezing-ass cold?!

Another nurse – looking like Nurse Ratched, with a personality to match – came in and announced that she was going to start my I.V. She was clearly amused – she read the expression on my face, and mistakenly interpreted it to be a fear of needles. “Good God, you’re not going to faint on me, are you?!” She had no idea of the trauma of personal dignity I had already experienced at the hands of NurseClaire.

Once the I.V. was started and good drugs administered, I may have been uncomfortable or even in some pain, but I didn’t care.

I [heart] the I.V. nurse.

One of the memes I saw floating around during the holidays had the question, “What is the worst Christmas present you ever received?”

Hmmm… How about a colonoscopy?

Well, an appointment for one, anyway… What does that say about the opinions of the people who love you? I know I have an habitual shitty attitude about the Holidays, but hey… No reason to be ugly about it!

Actually, since MamaBear and my aunt have both been cursed with colon cancer, I was strongly advised not to wait until the usual 50th birthday to roll around before I get checked. In fact, I was told by MamaBear’s doc at MD Anderson Cancer Center that at 41 years of age, I should “consider getting it done immediately.” That was in October. So since I hadn’t scheduled it myself, it was MamaBear’s idea to give me a Colon Camera Safari™ for Christmas. Somehow, she thought that would be better than an iPod.

So a week or so into January, I go to my appointment for the consult… The nurse schedules my procedure, “How about the second Wednesday in February, does that sound good for you?”

“Wednesday it is.”

“Great. I’ll put you down for 8:30 am.”

I get my paperwork and go to the ‘checkout’ window. There the nurse says, “Oh, I see you have a procedure scheduled for February 14th. Did the doctor give you a sheet with your instructions?”

“Wait a minute. February 14th? That’s Valentine’s Day! I’m not having a colonoscopy on Valentines Day!!”

The nurse just smiled politely. “Let me see when we can reschedule. Do you still want a Wednesday morning appointment?”

Given that I have to fast for 48 hours before the procedure, you’re damned right I do. I’m not sitting around all weekend watching teenagers eat… That’s all they do is eat. Eat and talk on the phone… Where was I? Oh…

“Wednesday would be great – or something later in the week would be okay too.”

“The doctor is scheduled on Mondays and Wednesdays at the hospital. It will have to be one of those days. The following week is wide-open, would that work for you?”

“Great, I’ll take it!”

The nurse just gave me a wicked little smile and said, “Well there you go. Wednesday the twenty-first it is. Have a nice day!”

So I get home and tell Mrs. Who, “You wouldn’t believe – they tried to book me for ‘The Probe’ on Valentines Day! Can you believe?”

Mrs. Who smirked – then asked, “Did you get it changed?” She smirked. Why is everyone doing that?

“Yes, they changed it to Wednesday of the following week. The twenty-first.”

“You mean Ash Wednesday? You do realize that’s Mardi Gras week… Don’t you have to fast or something before?”

*Groan* “Yes, dammit. So THAT’S why the scheduling nurse was smirking at me! SHE KNEW!!” She knew she was sentencing me to a liquid diet on Mardi Gras – which happens to be a big holiday in this part of the South. While Mardi Gras is more commonly associated with New Orleans, it actually started in Mobile, Alabama, where we have parades and parties and Moon Pies and big meals… And the kids are all off from school, so they’ll be sitting around the house eating…

So I called and rescheduled. Again. And guess what?

I’m sitting here this morning with my gottdam cup of chicken broth for breakfast and dreading tomorrow.

Right about now I’m thinking Valentines day would have been the better plan.