Saturday, January 26, 2008

Miserably Miserable

Surprisingly, I'm not referring to myself.

At Dialysis centers I've attended in the past, there was always an Us versus Them mentality between the staff and the patients. Thus, I bonded with my fellow sufferers.

Presently, that is not the case.

I was called into the early shift today and they seated me next to an elderly woman who was hooked up the oxygen tank.

As I was placing my items on the chair, I offered her a friendly, "Hello."

She looked at me like I had just crapped on her cat.

And this is one of the many reasons I loathe my fellow patients at Dialysis.

There is a subtle chasm between being miserable and acting miserable. This is one of the many lessons Dialysis has taught me.

As the needles invade my arm and my body adjusts to the trauma, I glance around the clinic hopeful to observe just one individual capable of defeating Dialysis' reign on their soul.

I was highly disappointed.

Crazy Goatee Guy was obviously off his medications again because every sentence was filled with colorful metaphors only he could define.

Elderly Moley Man was complaining about not having enough fluid pulled from his ailing form.

Middle Aged Afro Lady never says a word, just gives dirty looks when the staff speaks to her.

Trucker Hat Mute continues to creepily stare at me every treatment like he knows all my secrets.

Pouty Lipped Hot Blonde Chick grunts a hello whenever I greet her. She uses her fistula for the first time on Monday and is in for a world of hurt. If she were nicer, I might share my Vicodin stash.

Red Haired Albino immediately covers himself up once his needles are administered as though his cocoon of blankets will protect him from my laughter with the staff. He despises my presence there.

Know-It-All Intellectual Dude wouldn't stop talking about his obvious love and appreciation for the Confederate Army. The tech he was jabbering to just kept working and muttering, "Uh huh," over and over again. I found this highly amusing.

Clinically Obese Fan Woman continued to shove processed food items that resembled neither fruits or vegetables into her gullet.

Bearded Middle Age Schlub always gives me dirty looks from across the clinic and judges me when I'm in pain. He can pound sand as far as I'm concerned.

Deranged Santa Clone enjoys nothing better than watching wrestling. And he wants you to know it because he turns the TV up to full volume. When a tech asks him a question he screams every answer because he's a genius of the highest caliber.

Fartastic Snorer is just that. He immediately becomes comatose upon beginning treatment and is a decibel busting snorer. I find him entertaining because he'll fart loudly, wake up and mutter, "Huh, what?" and then gracefully fall back to sleep. Although potent, I will never forget him.

The preceding individuals are the main reason nobody ever comes to visit anyone at my clinic.

It's just too damn miserably miserable.

Friday, January 25, 2008


Mayo mustard up enough courage to lettuce ketchup to the pickle we found ourselves in. Pepper our buns toasted by the salt of the earth.

Relish in today not tomato.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

The Pink-Haired Temptress

Most women know this for a fact: most guys minds stop aging around twenty-five.

This explains all the ridiculously inane actions we consider as the odometer clicks another thousand days.

With a day off directly in hand, a shower minutes ago and a newly minted Beard of Destiny, I made my way to the local used CD store.

At thirty seven years of age, I'm still quite old school. I don't download music or iterate with iTunes. I like my comedy collection to be stored on CD or a classic phonograph record.

That's just the way I roll on the turntable of life. Scratchy scratch.

Moments after entering I hear a cute little voice say, "Hello." I glance around but my limited 20/100 vision can't zone in on where the hell it's coming from. I figure it's a faint voice from a past nurse I once lusted after dancing around in my head, so I turn left and make my way to the counter to discover where the Comedy section is hiding.

The Pink Haired Temptress made her presence fully known with another adorable, "Hello."

She couldn't have been older than twenty-five with bold pink hair and pure black clothing adoring her petite little figure.

"Hi, I was looking for the Comedy section."

The Pink-Haired Temptress stood up and her eyes rolled up into her head and she bit her lip, trying to remember where the laughs were hiding.

"I think it's over here," she blurted as she zipped into the far corner of the store. Little CD sleeves scattered in her wake she moved so fast.

Adhering to our age difference, I just tried to keep up.

She zipped around another aisle, planted her foot, spun around and made her way back over territory she had just explored.

I finally caught up to her and she put her arms out, palms up and declared, "Here it is."

"Thank you," I replied, fully taken by her perky lips and deep brown eyes.

"Let me know if I can help you with anything else."

As she darted off, my Stacy Vision couldn't help but zone in on her perfectly shaped ass in those insanely tight leather pants.

As I mentioned earlier...thirty seven year old body...twenty five year old mind.

I browsed through Carlin and Sandler, Pryor and Leary hoping to find something intriguing to whet my comedic tastes.

This is when the realization erupted in my mind.

"Dude, she's been giving you the googly eyes the whole time."

Let me explain.

There's a certain look women get in their eyes when they think I'm attractive. It happens so rarely that I have it burned into my head and emblazoned in my memory banks.

I glanced up momentarily to find that she was in the next aisle organizing other CD's. I smiled and she smiled back. Cool Stacy fully engaged and I went back to browsing CD's while she darted away once again.

Twenty-five year old women sure move fast. Which is kind of symbolic of our age difference.

I grab a couple Carlin albums to beef up my George addiction (he is a creative genius...I could do a whole blog site just on his inventiveness) and make my way to the counter.

"Did you find everything you needed?"

"Yes, you were very helpful. And you move really quickly. I didn't know if I could keep up."

She scanned my purchases and had a big smile on her face.

"Oh, I'm sure you could keep up."

The Stacy Flirt-Meter was on overload. I could've dived into that opening.

"What's your name?"

The Pink-Haired Temptress' shy demeanor was starting to evaporate.

"Lily," she proudly stated as she handed me a small plastic bag with logo feces emblazoned on the front.

"I like that. It has the same rhythm as my name, Stacy."

She leaned forward on the counter and her blouse opened slightly. I kept screaming at myself not to be a typical guy and glance down while our eyes were meeting.

"I've never known a guy Stacy. You don't meet them very often."

"Usually at the monthly meetings, I'm the only guy there. It's filled with the female Stacy's. Stacy with An E, IE, Double E and the ever popular silent X."

The Pink-Haired Temptress giggled and wouldn't take her eyes off mine.

"Are you always this silly?"

"It's not me, it's the beard."

I mimicked her leaning on the counter and spoke softly.

"Do you have any dinner plans?"

Her eyes rolled up into her head again and she bit her lip. After a momentary pause she grabbed a Post-It and jotted down her number.

"I'm off on Tuesdays and Sundays," she said, her eyes still googly.

"Well I'm off on Wednesday's and Saturdays. This will never work."

I grabbed the Post-It off the counter and just smiled.

"Bye Lily. I'll miss you."

"Ok, bye Stacy."

And then she was gone. And so was I.

Did anything happen? Stay tuned kids.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

4 Humans = 1 Stacy

It takes a ridiculously massive amount of wasted time to plan a vacation.

Don't get me wrong, I love my job. And I'm glad I have a number of different tasks every day and week instead of the same mind-numbing, sperm reducing, brain farting tasks every stinkin' day.

But to plan a vacation is a bewildering process filled with numerous e-mails, frequent conversations and a nagging feeling of dread that I'm going to forget something highly important and the station will start cursing involuntarily at the listeners.

That was quite a long sentence, filled with too many adjectives and not enough dangling participles.

So now I will present to you all the individuals that will convalesce into a complete yet highly diluted Stacy Without An E:

1. Old Program Director to take care of merging music logs.
2. Weekend Part-Timer to handle my afternoon drive shift.
3. Morning Personality to fill in on my weekend shift.
4. Midday personality asked to do all the other tasks too boring and annoying to list here.

Logic would dictate (ooh, I quoted Spock) that I would be paid at least as much as two employees. Or at the very least one and five eighths.

This frustrates me to no end and I would take action and do something about it but most days I just want to lie in bed, stare at the ceiling and ask God to make me feel just a little bit better so I can stand for more than thirty minutes without getting dizzy or blacking out.

But some days it feels like that day is just a figment of a fleeting thought I once had in an earlier and more potent version of myself.

May the days of lyin' and dozes be my savior.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

My IQ is Wading in the Shallow End of the Gene Pool

If you read my blog for any amount of time (and God help you if you do) you know that I rail against stupid people because I possess such a hatred for them. And because they're everywhere.

They block aisles. They're mouth breathers. They vote for people based on their acting resume.

But I have now become one of them.

I have spent the better part of my vacation vomiting every color of the rainbow into any receptacle that was willing.

You're right. Extremely gross. My apologies.

I don't have a bug or food poisoning. I'm just a run of the mill Dialysis patient. Comes with frightening territory.

I thought I would fight my condition and purchase some acidophilus to help my digestive system keep food down.

This is when the trouble began.

The bottle wasn't just child proof, it was human proof. I just couldn't get it open.

Along the bottom of the cap was a little ring of plastic preventing tampering. I couldn't get my thumbnail under it to get some leverage so I could remove the cap.

So I grabbed a knife.

I know. You know what's coming next.

I nearly had it removed when one final tug underneath slipped. Into my left hand. Underneath the index and middle finger. Creating a lovely one inch gash in my hand.

You're right. Ouchee.

But this is where my experience with Dialysis kept me from freaking out.

It hurt. But every day of my life I experience physical pain. I'm not exaggerating. Every frickin' day.

And stopping the bleeding wasn't a major event either. I have gauze and tape and a million other products due to my Dialysis history.

For a moment I thought about going to the ER but I loathe it so. People lose IQ points suddenly and dramatically when I'm in there. I'll blog about that soon. You'll love it.

And the wait is ridiculously long. Plus it frustrates me that people come in when they have a minor malady. I've heard numerous people over the years lectured to by ER staff when all they had was a sniffle or a headache. Wimps.

I had the nurse take a look at it after Dialysis and she said as long as it didn't start swelling, I should be okay to take care of it myself.

When events like this happen in your life it's good to recap the events and discover what you learned (this is what sets me apart from the others wading nearby)

1. Knives be sharp, especially when they're new.
2. Opening ANY item with a knife is moronic. Even cavemen knew better.
3. Continual vomiting will make you do dopey things.
4. Blood likes to escape as often as possible.
5. Me no forget knives be sharp.

Thank you and good night.

P.S...It took eight times as long as usual to type the preceding.
P.S.S...It was fourteen times as painful.
P.S.S.S...It was one-eighth as entertaining as I'd hoped.
P.S. the Fourth...I will sacrifice myself for the sake of this blog at any time.

Monday, January 21, 2008


When did I lose the ability to enjoy a simple day in the park lying on my back making images out of clouds?

When did dating become less about fun and more about judgment?

When did that first white hair arrive?


When did happiness go from a natural occurrence to something you had to fight for?

When did the world get so complicated?

When did common courtesy become so rare?


When did want morph into need?

When did fat become the standard?

When did it become commonplace for the criminal to have more rights than the victim?


When did I become a working drone?

When did showing your ass crack come into fashion?

When did pain become my constant companion?


Sunday, January 20, 2008

The Beard of Destiny Master Plan

The Beard of Destiny has come up with what he believes is a fantastic idea and he's willing to sacrifice himself to accomplish it.

Rob a bank.

His idea stems from the fact that I look completely different with a Beard of Destiny. I resemble a cross between Grizzly Adams and the Unabomber.

I know. Totally attractive and hot.

The Beard of Destiny has come up with the entire plan and my only duty is to drive the getaway car.

That's right. Just like in the movies.

So according to the Beard of Destiny, I must enter a banking establishment, hand them a note demanding a boatload of cash and then I exit.

Once we make it to the hideout, I'm to shave my beard, dye my hair black and resume my life.

And we split the cash and go our separate ways.

That's right, the Beard of Destiny is a huge fan of Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive."

My next post will either be from the Greek Isles or prison.

Thank you and good night.