Saturday, December 7, 2013

"Morpine for One"

Well I went the "911" route again. This is becoming more common as the years quickly progress to my ultimate fate. Swell. Anyway there I was again all sick as hell excreting liquids from everywhere.

Why didn't my dad tell me what was coming.

"Son remember when I told your dumb behind about what them bird's, and bee's was up to. Well now it's time for another little chat."

"Look kid I won't shit ya!"

"Getting 'old' is a first class Mother Fucker on skates, and no grease when it pork's you up the butt!"

Can't you just see this on "Father Knows Best".

So I calls "911" I tell the operator I'm some old guy puking green bile, and  rolling around on the floor in blinding agony .   

Sez she: "...Oh another one..what is it with you guys?"

Sez me: "Hey ya wanna give me a break I'm dy'n over here."

"Okay, okay gramps keep your dildo on I'll send ya a meat wagon."

Well the fellah's show up before I lose too much blood, and other assorted primal liquids. They stuffs me into their oil burner, and off to the hell of American underclass medical help we go.

Would have been better if I just died on my bathroom floor.

As usual I comes to full of tubes.

Oh bless the Morphine gawds! How I wish I could take a family pack of that neat stuff home with me. I began to plan on how I would sneak some outta there. Eh drink it, and piss it out later? 

Anyway while I'm planning this drug heist my nurse comes by...she looks nine years old. 


You old fucks out there noticed that? Everybody not our age looks like a fetus. Well junior adjusts my urine bag which I didn't know I had on.

...oh morphine my heavenly angel.

Another embryo changes the I.V. on my right side while Miss urine bag plugs in a fresh needle on my left. It looked like she was giving me an intervenes grape soda.

"...well this should be interesting thinks I."

Lights out.

Whatever these girl scouts gave me put me in the realm of Elysium for a long stretch. I comes to while some Indian doctor is writing something over me. 

"Am I dead yet?" I asks.

He smiles, and sez "...Oh not quite yet" in a Pakistani accent. 

You gotta be careful about that ya know. Calling an Indian Pakistani or vice versa puts the fat in the fire around here.

Knowing the accents of the Sub-Continent is a necessity in the Emerald City.

Well the doc tells me I'm alive, and goes into stuff I already know, but pretend to be fascinated by. Again life is tricky. Ya has to know how to handle folks.

Bottom line I'm all fixed more or less, but they want me to stay the night for observation. Which in fact means the night nurse reads her Facebook as I sleep in a bed next to the security section. 

That's where the prisoners that get knifed  on Riker's Island stay.

I went home that morning all patched, and plugged up. I'm healing, but no longer under the wonderful influence of all that morphine,...damn!

More as I get older.


  1. Sick again? That sucks mummified donkey dicks!

    I know where you can get top-notch Taoist herbal medicines that might keep you outta the hospital. Trouble is you gotta know which ones to take, and that needs a qualified practitioner. There's lots of phonies out there, so you need a reliable reference. I'll see if I can find you one if you're interested. Anyway, that seems better than growing opium poppies on your window sill.


  2. Deep identification.
    On the Monday before Thanksgiving I propelled myself over the bike's handlebars.
    On Friday after Thanksgiving I turned 60. On the next day I took myself to the local ER -I was in so much pain. The doctor who was nearly 12 years old asked if I were wearing a helmet when I tumbled.I said yes. He pointed to my wrist band and said-well, I want you to have a scat scan anyway-you are a 60 year old man-
    My brain is fine! Ribs not so much. It only hurts when I laugh,or cough or hiccough or sneeze or exhale after inhaling. regards
    ps Time to read Church Going by Phillip Larkin

  3. Damn Sidney,
    Just heard about this when listening to you this morning (12/14/13) on WBAI at 4AM my time. Take care up there in NYC.

    Sure loved your story about Saint Dominic the patron saint of choir boys and of the falsely accused. Never heard of him before. Me being only half Catholic. I do like the pictures of him in Google Images. He is a classic choir boy but a little too saintly for me. I more like the Choir Boy in Edmund Marlowe’s “Alexander’s Choice”, an Eton boy’s love story or Angus Stewart’s Choir Boy in “Sandel”.

    I am getting of the age I need to be thinking of final services. I wonder can you charge them on your visa card? Then let them see if they can collect 

    And, you are moving to a new apartment. I am thinking of that too. Think I will wait a year or so and check out public housing.
    Love now Sydney and “Good Health”!