Friday, August 22, 2008

Bloody Shirt, Bloody Chair, Bloody Hell

In some sort of weekly karmic retribution only the universe understands, I have been allowed to witness my blood splatter regularly and with purpose all over my favorite David Letterman t-shirt.

I own about two dozen t-shirts, half solid colored and half with logos. If I allow your company's logo feces to adorn my body, I must like your product.

So kudos to Converse, Coca-Cola and the Pittsburgh Steelers. You all rule and I will continue to purchase your products until they eventually kill me.

You're right. If I had any brains I'd wear nothing but solid red t-shirts and be done with it.

But just because I attend Dialysis treatments six days a week doesn't mean I have to dress like a penniless bum.

(I'm talking to you Redneck Twins, Boorish Lawyer Schmuck and Cocoon Boy.)

I often wonder why we aren't adorned like a hospital patient: baggy gown that exposes the true size of one's ass to the masses.

On second thought, that would be an extremely tasteless idea. Many of the patients who infest my clinic possess horrible hygiene and I can only imagine their ass-washing decorum.

Personally, I've always found those gowns very freeing and comfortable. In my younger and much more attended hospital days, I was so shy and the gowns were so tent-like that I would wrap them twice around my little frail form creating a cocoon of medical misery.

My most recent hospitalization, couldn't care less. Take a gander at my pimply white ass sir. It's most likely more entertaining than anything on TV this hour. Glance away!

Tonight as my "Late Show" t-shirt was being doused with peroxide, I realized I was forced to just wear my dark jacket over my naked torso.

I have to pass Angelic Blonde Babe on my way out so the question becomes: how far down to I put the zipper? Do I give a little looksee at my concave chest, or do I cry shame and bolt it all the way to the top?

Since I have no chest hair to speak of you can probably guess the answer.

As winter approaches and I may have to avoid my bike, I have a great idea that should get ABB's attention.

I don a thick cotton robe with matching slippers and enter the clinic as I always do. In my mouth I'll have a pipe that I will appear to be sucking on. One of the techs will warn me there is absolutely no smoking (unless you're on fire) in the clinic and I must extinguish it immediately.

As the words leave this individual's lips bubbles will sprout from the end of the pipe.

I think I've found my new Dialysis wardrobe.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The Stacy Channel

Punching the lifeless buttons on your universal remote, you might chance upon my life.

Black and white scratchy images subjugated by a muted tone. An audible hiss that rises and falls depending on how much suffering is taking place on screen.

The whole affair witnessed through a filter of hopelessness and despair.

Events transpire and try as you might, you can't turn away.

Caramel colored vomit splashing uncontrollably over the face of an unwitting toilet bowl.

Splattered blood canvasing a virginous t-shirt.

A barely audible whisper of an elderly woman begging to die.

The sound of death muted by an ambulance siren.

The reaction of baring witness to this circus of horrors should be obvious.

Be glad you're not me.

Now chance the channel.

I wish I could.