Dead Weight in the Waiting Room
I’ve reached the age where doctors have such a laser beam focus on my arsehole that they’ve asked me to shit in an ice cream container. They are clear that they need what they call a stool sample, however were not forthcoming about what flavour I’m supposed to be shitting into? Hahaha! God, poo is so funny! Well, it was for my whole life, right up until this morning when in the high wire act of crapping into a container I managed to shit all over myself. Folks, never ever complain about the shower being in the same room as the throne.
It’s been a big few days. Friday we were halfway out the door to go see Doug Stanhope- a wondrous fine comic- when blood began gushing from my nose. It was immediately decided that going to a place and laughing really hard for two hours would be a literally bloody bad idea. I decided that since the show was sold out, I wouldn’t try to sell our tickets. What was the logic there? Well, I reckoned a couple of lucky customers would have some extra space around them, but more importantly, if I couldn’t go, why should anyone else? Clearly I deserved the blood nose and in fact had three more blood noses over the next two days.
There are people who assign meaning to injuries and ailments, but I have learned it’s much more creative and fun to just fucking not. If there is anything more tiresome than a person talking about what they dreamt last night, it’s getting all witchy about things that happen to our meat corpses. Anyway, then I had some sort of stomach ache and had to get that looked at, and I therefore had the experience of being in a waiting room where a woman was watching a game show or some shit on her phone, out loud mind you, laughing along with the laughing audience and I have never been less full of laughs in my life. Oh, there was that time I was in a waiting room and a group of people were being jolly and cheerful, while right next to them a couple tearfully waited to find out if their daughter was dead? That was pretty cool? People are cool?
Waiting rooms and airport queues are for quiet reflection on your fragile mortality, you fucking morons.
If you want to see me at my most autistic, accompany me to a doctor’s office, as Jo must, for I drop many IQ points in those situations and fail to mention all sorts of key information. Jo does a lot of the talking and I simply correct her if she gets something wrong, which is a man’s job am I right men? Fucking hell, I’m a joke machine today!
I'll let Jo explain to me later whether that's over the line or not.
I haven't skated for over a week and my body feels like it belongs to some sort of boring loser dad. I read an article about how exercise is very effective for dealing with depression and anxiety, something I have always known, because I’ve always had to. Some people have a big sook when they’re told that the things that are in their head are all in their head. This is always funny to watch when you’re all lined up to get some help for your mental illness. What’s that bro? You’re not going to make any attempt to help yourself? Then give me your doctor’s appointments you useless piece of shit.
When you go through a lot of mental illness, you meet a lot of mentally ill people and some of them, not many, have a mental illness called “I’m a piece of shit”. People who’s whining is thoroughly objectionable and who we should really just give an income, and housing, asking nothing of them. They’re such pieces of shit that if you called the payment the Piece of Shit Payment their sense of entitlement wouldn’t allow them to notice. We should look after these pieces of shit though, precisely because they give nothing back, which is an incredible achievement. Not everyone can be out there pulling their weight. Can you imagine a world where everyone contributed? Disgusting. It’d be like living on a planet of teacher’s pets.
Oh, I nearly forgot, we’re all going to die in a war. Bye for now.
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