Sunday, December 12, 2010

Saturday Night Holocaust

(except for ours, baby)

I drive down to the disco
Pompadour and pink lame
I bow and blow the doorman
He parts the chain, says join the game 

A quick line in the girls room
To the bar for the electrodes
A coin into the right slit
Tape my temple watch me go 

Now I want your perfect Barbie-doll lips
And I want your perfect Barbie-doll eyes
Slip my fingers down your Barbie-doll dress
Up and down your spandex ass 

~ Dead Kennedys
(insert orgasm here)

So, I tried to stay out of trouble on my last day in hop-sital. I really did.

It almost worked, too, since God sent me such a worthy fucking adversary.


I was biting my nails down to the quick this morning, wondering how I was going to get through the day. Sundays BLOW here in hop-sital - there are no groups, so the only structured times we have are meals. 

That’s it.

The rest of the time, I am left to my own devices.

And that, as anyone who has ever met me very well knows, is NOT A GOOD THING.

I considered my options this morning after breakfast. What could I do to keep myself busy in a hop-sital all day? I had already stalked the fuck out of Jello Biafra on the Interweb, that series of tubes - there wasn’t a picture left standing of him that wasn’t already in my possession. And I wasn’t interested in stalking Trent Reznor today - I needed more than a moody prima donna to grab my attention, no matter how beautiful he was.

Oooops. Have I just said that? How odd.

Anyway, I was starting to panic, sitting on my hop-sital bed with my MacBook in my lap. What I needed was a project; something to fill up my time, fill up my mind, and fill up my hands. Frustrated, I shoved my computer onto my bed and stood up.

Princess Sheeba looked up from her bed beside me, where she was engrossed in her 45,937th consecutive episode of Grey’s Anatomy. “You ok, Kage? Where you going?”

“I dunno,” I sighed irritably. “For a walk.”

“You’re not allowed to walk, you’re on modified bed rest,” she pointed out. “You’re supposed to be in a wheelchair.”

Pfft. Fuck that.

“Sorry, what?” I called over my shoulder with a wink as I shimmied towards the door. “I can't hear you, I have my iPod on.” And with a tip of my imaginary top hat, I tap-danced out of the room.

Once in the hall, I resumed walking normally and wandered down the hop-sital corridor, my hackles raised for any nurse who might tell me to get back into bed. I’m not sitting in a fucking wheelchair, either, I thought mutinously. The only reason my heartbeat was so rapid when we got checked this morning was cuz I was doing ballet when the nurses weren’t looking. I mean, really, it’s THEIR fault there was such a difference between my resting heart rate and my standing heart rate. 

They shouldn’t have turned their backs! DUH.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” screeched a familiar voice from somewhere in the hallway, and I turned to look over my shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” I rolled my eyes, then looked around quickly for the authorities. I had already been warned on more than one occasion to just leave this woman alone. The coast was currently clear, though, so I went and sat down in the chair directly across from the hop-sital's most annoying patient. 

Remember Creepy Crazy Old Lady from a while back? You know, she's one of the patients who lives in the hop-sital hallway, who has no idea who she is, where she is, or whether I’m her daughter, her nurse or her fucking Mommy?

Ahhhhhh. Sweet memories. 

For me, anyway. Her, not so much.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as I plopped down across from her, and she reached out and grabbed my hand. “I haven’t seen you since your wedding day!”

I smirked, thinking immediately of the headline I had just read not three minutes prior of Jello Biafra’s wedding in 1981:

Never. Fucking. Happened. YOU GOT THAT? *sob*

Let’s volunteer with the elderly! I decided gleefully, and allowed her to crush my fingers in her death grip.

“Ah yes, our wedding day! Wasn’t it beautiful?” I gushed happily, and tossed my hair back, like I was drunk on love. “Jello and I are just SO happy. What a beautiful graveyard for a wedding. And can you believe Hermann Goering showed up? Such a lovely surprise! And in drag, too! High as the sky, he was, but he danced so beautifully in the gown Eva Braun killed herself in, who could be mad? Oh, and we made the newspapers! Already! Ha ha! News travels fast here in San Fransisco, doesn’t it?”

She frowned. “Does it? I hadn’t noticed.” She waved my hand in the air for a moment, then banged it down hard on her food tray.


Old whoor.

“Well, we just got married this morning,” I said, and laughed gaily. “But then, you were there, you would know.” I winked.

“Was I?” she said, and scrunched up her nose. Bang! my hand slammed down into her discarded, slimy toast.

Ugh, gross, I thought crossly. Goddamn karma!

“Of course you were!” I exclaimed, lifting both our hands out of her dinner tray. “You gave Jello away! You silly girl, don’t you remember? It was just before you left for your afternoon shift at Hooters.”

“Oh, yes, right, yes,” she said and patted my hand, then started to squeeze it, then started to pound it on the table painfully hard.  “You looked just lovely.”

“Thank-you,” I said warmly, trying to quell my panic and extradite my hand back to it's original owner. From my vast experience with this woman, I knew the procedure of reclaiming my hand could take anywhere from two seconds to two hours, depending on her mood. “Your Wellingtons were also lovely.”

“In the papers, you say?” she said suddenly, and I was momentarily stunned enough to stop pulling at my hand. She can’t usually recall the details of any of our conversations - as in, a few moments after the words have passed either of our lips, she has forgotten they were even uttered. We just start up a completely new, totally unrelated conversation every, say, 30 to 40 seconds. It’s quite fun, really, and she seems to enjoy having the company, instead of just being ignored by the nurses all the time. 

Well. She enjoys it, up until she just starts screaming again.  

“Erm, yes, in the papers,” I echoed, and smiled enthusiastically. "Jello is the mayor, after all."

“May I see it?” she asked, and I gulped.

"See it?" I repeated. 

Uh oh. Oops.

 Huh, I couldn't help smirking to myself and shaking my head. Whodda thunk it, Kage, you asshole? That you'd get busted by a crazy old octogenarian with DEMENTIA. Haha! OF ALL THE FUCKING PEOPLE - 

Um, HELLO? I interrupted myself. Get moving.

Oh. Right.

“Of course you may,” I said cheerfully, and tossed my hair over my shoulder, as though I hadn't a care in the world. She’ll forget by the time I take three steps away from her, anyway, I thought dismissively, as I went for broke and yanked my hand out in one go. Yes! I got it! Ha ha! MINE, BITCH! “I’ll just have William bring the carriage round the front lane. I believe Papa left the papers in there.”

“Alright,” she agreed, and looked up happily at the plain white hop-sital wall, as if it held all the answers to her muddled mind.

I stood up and backed away slowly for a few steps, then turned and ran back down the hall towards the dorm rooms, excitement brewing in my stomach. True, Creepy Crazy Old Lady wouldn’t remember a fucking THING in another thirty seconds, but there were plenty of other old people to fuck with on this floor. 

And Kagie needed a project!

I merengue’ed back into the dorm room, did a couple of twirls of victory, then flung myself onto my hop-sital bed and proceeded to download Abode ImageReady.

I had a wedding photo to make.

 Well, I reasoned. Not a wedding photo. Just a photo, really. These people were well beyond reason; they wouldn’t know a wedding photo from a cum shot, if I cut the picture out of a porn mag while I was sitting in their laps.

I was happy as a clam, though, because I don’t know SHIT about ANYTHING - I can barely turn ON my MacBook without help, let alone cut out Jello Biafra’s head and superimpose it onto another picture and make it look real enough to fool old people into believing that we were just married this morning, and that THEY were THERE! 

This was going to take at LEAST ten minutes.

Ugh. Famous last fucking words.


Actually, all things considered (like my immaturity, mental instability, potential rap sheet, etc.) it’s amazing that no one got hurt. But, needless to say, it turns out I don’t quite have the intellectual capacity to learn all of Abode ImageReady in one afternoon.

God damn it!

And so, the old folks of Blah Blah Hop-sital remained safe for yet another day.

I know, I know. 

I'm disappointed, too.

I can’t WAIT to get out of this hop-sital tomorrow, so things can just get back to normal. 

You know, where I just tell old people to go fuck themselves.



  1. Why don't more people know that this blog fucking rocks? The Dead Kennedys infusion alone does it for me.

    Don't know why you're in the hospital, but get the hell out of there. No good will come of such a place. (Except, erm, how they help heal people and stuff. But other than that, NO GOOD.)

  2. Bed rest blows. Especially if you don't have cable tv.

  3. d pirate,
    wow, thanks :) oh, and isn't it clear? i'm in hop-sital to help the elderly. heh heh. but today i go FREE!

    oilfield daddy,
    not only do i not have tv, but my dvd player isn't working on my computer. hence the endless jello biafra stalking...

  4. WHERE are you going to find the geriatric to fuck with now that you are out?

    BTW, your getting out gift is in your email inbox. It took me WAY longer than I thought. Damn. SO! I hope you enjoy!

  5. mike,
    there are geriatrics everywhere you look, just BEGGING to be fucked with! you just gotta hunt 'em down.

    and thank-you for the getting out gift! SO. FUCKING. FUNNY!!!


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