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  • Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things...

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        Tuesday, January 09, 2007

    Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things...

    ...or so it's said. But it is just so much damn fun.

    The Queen of Dysfunction is apparently getting her license to play with them, or so I understand. Wendy, if you don't mind putting her there in the blogroll, so I can catch up? Thanks.

    Morticians are what you get when you flunk medical school (can't even become an ass doctor!) and then flunk dental school and then flunk veterinary school and then flunk the Dunkin Donut training: hullo, mortician.
    My Dad worked as one for awhile. Between us, I think we've had every job there is. I was even a thief, but I'd never be a politician. I'd like to think I have some standards.

    Man, I have had me some fun with dead people...

    I could go on all day. Hospitals are great places to find them, heck, they manufacture them there. Pump em out by the butt-load. I was making time with (and I'm pretty sure I mentioned this somewhere on the blog before...senior moment. oh well) this pretty lab tech in this old hag's room one time, while she was drawing blood from the crone. Or rather trying to. Turns out Granny Goodwitch was dead, wherein the whole 'lack of a pulse' thing was making it difficult to pull out any precious bodily fluids.

    It also destroyed the whole romantical ambiance I had been trying to create, that whole 'Love Connection' I was going for, as the hottie ran into the bathroom and splorged, and then ran home for a few days of hysterics.

    Well, my break was over, so I told the old bag's nurse she had less work to do this evening, and started to go back to my patient (I was a private duty orderly for a quadriplegic doctor) when I realized I was hungry, and hadn't eaten my sandwich, so I blazed to the break room and burst in to get my sandwich out of the fridge, and that damn nurse had shoved the gurney with the dead broad on it into the break room to get it out of the way because it was just starting to be visiting hours and she saw the old woman's family way down the hall and panicked and the edge of the gurney caught me on the front of my thighs and my momentum propelled me up and onto her stiffening old titties and we rolled across the room and her mouth was open and her eyes rolled back and I was likely giving her the best ride of her life and we hit the glass patio door and the nursing staff rushed in to see what was the matter and I'm trying like heck to get offa this gross dead broad and not tip the wobbly-ass gurney over and dump her off on me and...

    I cannot recall if I ever ate that sandwich. Good news: Didn't break the glass door.

    One time a big fat guy died while trying to get to the door of his room to call for help. He died at the door, and the squeak of his x-hundred pounds of flubber sliding down the door, then the smack like the whack of a huge tuna being thrown onto the dock, as he hit the floor, alerted the staff that there just might be something wrong.

    Of course, none of those bitches could make the door so much as budge, so they came flocking and flapping to me to come get in. He was in a private room, with no adjoining doors, and the architects had thoughtfully put the hinges on the inside, and the door was a slab of wood that could have just as easily served as a board-room table.

    The nurses were whining that 'if they could only get in and save him', but I knew he was dead the moment my shoulder hit the door. It's called 'dead weight' for a reason. Well, I started thudding into the door, and you could hear his fat squeak as he gave a little, and he had shit as he died (another unpleasant fact of death) and then he began to leak a little blood under the door, which mixed nicely with the shit, and served to lube things up.

    Eventually, I was able to force enough of a gap so that a couple of the smaller females were able to slither on through and tend to him, and yes, he was really, truly dead.

    Oh, and there was this one old broad who had beautiful, long silver hair. She was in a coma of some sort, but the nurses doted on her, and would form her hair into these huge, thick braids...

    Did you know, that if you take all of the various stringage available in a hospital room, light strings and such, and array them in such a fashion, that when the nurse comes in to check on an old woman with pigtails, and you pull the strings, and the old woman's pigtails leap up over her head and stand at attention, perhaps waggling a little, that you can make a nurse piss right through the very front of her own pants? And scream? A lot?

    Well, I'm here to tell you that, why yes, you can.

    Okay, no fair, that old woman wasn't dead, though the nurse nearly became so, and I really have no particular animus against the dead, except when they come back to life.

    So, I was wheeling this dead guy to the morgue, one evening, and a hot little nurse was accompanying me (are we sensing a theme, here? Oh, how I despoiled vaginas in that place...) because we were going to the cafeteria to have dinner together, but first, a little trip to the basement was in order, where the dead were stored.
    I wheeled him in, and she and I followed, and stood there, close, chatting, doing the first few steps in the Tango of Love, and Mister Dead Guy sits up, and moans at us.

    Now, I am pretty sure that human teleportation involving thought and desire alone is not possible, because she and I would have both reappeared somewhere near Pluto, in each other's arms, screaming out the last of our breath into the cold vacuum of space, just to get away.

    As it was, we clabbered and scrabbled on the steel elevator walls trying to claw our way out, 'scleeming like banshee', and likely piddling some, though I do not recall, though as the elevator hit its destination, he laid back down with another moan, and his hand and arm flopped out of the gurney, and I swear it grabbed for us, and we screamed some more (I was hoarse for days) and then kinda bunny-hopped past him as fast as we could...

    This was one of those elevators with doors at both ends, and to get out, we had to pass him, and I knew the door was about to close, and the elevator lights were flickering some, and this is just one more reason I know I do not have some sort of congenital heart defect, cuz I'da gone to be with Jesus right then and there.

    She and I burst out into the morgue, realized where we were, and hit the stairs screaming, all the way up, and burst out into the hallway.
    Later, I had a laughing doctor explain that it had been a normal nervous reaction on the part of the dead guy, just a spasm, and the moan had been trapped air being squeezed out of his stomach by his diaphragm as he sat up. And he gently chided me for leaving the dead guy in the elevator, riding up, and down, up, and down, for a couple of hours. During the dinner hour.

    It was so horrible, that I reenacted it again for the nursing staff a week or so later. I had another orderly wheel me up to the nursing station, me under a sheet on the gurney. I even took my shoes and socks off, and got a paper tag from Inhalation Therapy and wrapped it around my big toe.
    He parked me there, said something about the funeral home being along in a few minutes to pick me up, and left. It was pretty routine, and pretty soon the girls got back to joking and goofing and being nurses, and I stretched it out as long as I could, and then I let out a loud moan, and clawed my fingers into the air and began spasming, and by the time I got the sheet off my face, I was alone.

    And I swear, I smelled shit in the air. Oh well, it was a hospital, so I suppose that's to be expected.