First of all, everything they do to you in a hospital can kill you. They
usually try and lay this out for you in the subtlest manner possible, leaving it
at the end of a long list of other, more creative shit that can happen to you.
Example:
“Mr. Marine, today you’re going to need a CT scan of your chest. During this
procedure we are going to have to inject iodine into your blood for imaging
purposes. This means there is a slight chance of infection, swelling, nausea,
fainting, blood poisoning, rickets,
pubic lice and death.”
"Your hands will be gently restrained to remind you not to
punch one of the nurses in the fucking mouth."
What pisses me off about
this particular method of disclosing information is that it closely
mimics the inept manner in which I used to try and tell my parents
that I did something wrong.
Example:
“Joj, how was school today?”
“Oh, It was great, dad! It was group picture day for the yearbook, so in band
I got to play Magic The Gathering® and then for lunch today they had sloppy
joe’s, and then in gym I played basketball with the guys, and then (pace of
talking steadily increasing and then trailing off) I found out I failed math….”
“What!?!? You failed math again??!? Are you fucking kidding me?!! You can
consider Skinamax and HBO canceled as of this instant!
“Nooooooo! Not Shannon Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!”
But the more important thing I wanted to share with all of you is this
lovely little packet they gave me entitled “Everything You Need To Know About
Heart Surgery.” The mind-boggling thing about this little booklet is the manner
in which they try and relay the information to you. It’s written at about a
fourth grade reading level, and the stick figure drawings they include
throughout the book look like a first grader did them. Is it asking too much
that the information they pass along before a major surgery be presented in a
professional manner? Apparently so.
The book starts off talking about the anatomy of the heart and
the different conditions that can lead to needing heart surgery.
There are sections on the different types of surgeries, and then
there is a section on what to do the day of the operation. It walks
you through all the prep work, medications, and pre-operative
procedures that you will undergo.
Then a funny thing happens: it skips right to a section called After
Surgery. That’s right, not a fucking word about the 3-4 hours you’ll spend
with your sternum sawed in half and your chest pried open like a fucking
clamshell. No talk about the fact you’ll be breathing using a machine, or that
they will have to, at one point, cool down your body to 83 degrees Fahrenheit
and stop your blood flow for a few minutes while they make the repairs. No talk
about the fact that your aortic valve will then be replaced by a pig’s, or that
you might technically be dead for a period of 10-12 minutes. It skips right to
talking about how you’ll be in the intensive care unit when you wake up—and oh,
you might be groggy, and in excruciating pain. But it’s cool, there’s enough
cookies and juice for everyone!
Then it goes into all the shit you’ll be going through while you’re in the
hospital. It talks about how you’ll have a breathing tube down your nose and you
won’t be able to talk to your family. You’ll have to let them know how you feel
by blinking, gently nodding, or writing notes. That’s pretty sweet; I’m hoping
that after doing this for a while I’ll be able to dominate in my weekly charades
game. It talks about how two tubes will be inserted into your chest to prevent
fluid from accumulating in the chest cavity. Then it says, “The chest tube(s)
will be gently squeezed or milked to ensure adequate drainage.” Excuse me, did
you just say milked? I can’t wait for some motherfucker to try and milk me. I
dare anyone reading this to come up to me at any time, day or night, unprovoked,
and try and milk my fucking ass. That is a bad career move no matter how you
look at it. I’m not even in any pain right now and I’m pissed off just thinking
about it. Wait ‘til I’ve been cut up like a fine piece of filet, then see what
happens to the first person who tries to milk me. You have got a better chance
of squeezing your daily supplement of Vitamin D out of a mountain gorilla’s
teet.
It also says, and I quote, “Your hands will be gently restrained to remind
you not to pull the tube out.” Oh really? What it should say is, “Your hands
will be gently restrained to remind you not to punch one of the nurses in the
fucking mouth.” And God help the sonofabitch who tries to jip me out of some
pain meds. It’s cool though, I’ll just strangle the fucker with my flaccid cock,
so as to “gently remind them” I’m not to be fucked with.
Speaking of flaccid cocks, the meds they put me on have made me impotent.
Not permanently mind you (Court’s mom should be so lucky), but at least until I
have this fucking operation. What a cherry to put on top of this huge shit
sundae. Let me tell you something else too: being sterile is some shit. We
aren’t talking about “not in the mood right now” can’t get hard. Or, I just
watched some cheerleader porn and had a fervent beat off fest flaccid either.
We’re talking “can’t get hard, don’t even have the urge to get hard, I have so
much mental energy leftover that I’ve cleaned my whole condo, organized my socks
by color, and figured out an exit strategy for Iraq” can’t get hard.
This is such an in-depth mindfuck I can’t even begin to
comprehend the consequences. I once masturbated 23 times in one day.
Now I can’t even pop a woody. I wake up in the morning and there’s
nothing. No gentle reminder of my once vigorous nature. Just a
semi-large, spongy, veiny piss hose. It could be worse though I
suppose. They could be
trying to milk my prostate.
THINGS THAT PISS ME OFF:
People who come up with shticks for their columns, use them
inconsistently, and then get rid of them altogether.
