The Queen is lying in state.
President Biden is lying in office.
Fish and sharp provolone: how can you tell if they've gone bad?
The Committee to Search for a Locating Committee has announced the final candidates for the Great Laundry Search of 2022. I have one serious rule and that's that I do not complain about something someone does for me. At this point, I'm talking about laundry. It would be harmful for me to complain, as Wife does it.
You see, I'm all out of clothes.
This would be a surprise in any household, no less one where we sometimes purchase new clothes because we cannot find the old ones (or we don't want to wash them).
The socks really confused me. They started disappearing early, before the rest of my clothes. The only reason I found out what was happening was that Wife clued me in (a metaphor for marriage if there ever was one). She didn't like some of my socks and was replacing them slowly. I honestly have no idea what my socks did to her to make her hate them, but sometimes it's not worth asking. Rumor has it that a certain set of striped socks was saying bad things about her mother. I chose not to be upset about this, even though this is precisely the kind of thing that PISSES ME OFF. In marriage, you choose your battles (to lose). On the bright side, I had new socks, complete without holes or other sock-like disturbances. Or stripes.
It was the rest of the clothes that really got me. Collectively referred to as 'The Darks,' they just seemed to disappear over time. One theory was that there were so many, they got too heavy to carry, so she started disposing of them. This theory failed to hold water, or even clothes, because I carry Heavy Stuff. As far as I know, none of The Darks insulted her. Let me also mention here that I have a lot of t-shirts. My entire wardrobe consists of t-shirts. Ok, jeans too. But I have a lot of t-shirts. Since I'm difficult to buy for, she sometimes gets me t-shirts. So I could fill a small house with my t-shirts. I could also fill a large house. This makes the inability to find the t-shirts even more confusing. While there are certainly enough places to hide t-shirts in our house, even the Locating Committee cannot locate them.
This matter is made more complicated by Wife leaving on vacation in a few days. Not that I'd find my clothes, but even if I did, I'd have to launder them. I have no fear: I'll rush into a burning building or take on a multi-million dollar computer network, but that damn washer scares the hell out of me. Again, I'd have to find the clothes first.
No one can find them or tell me where they've gone. The usual subjects have been considered (aliens, Trump, the neighbors) but rejected. What makes this even more confusing, if that's possible, is that clean laundry will occasionally show up. I'll pick up a t-shirt and comment that I haven't seen that shirt in years. So we know at least some of them come back. We just don't know where they go, when they come back, and why they still require washing when they do.
The problem, as I see it, is that in about a day or so, I will have no clean clothes. Except some socks. So I'll be The Naked Blogger. Unfortunately I'll also be The Naked Neighbor, which could put a damper on going outside (or opening the curtains). I'm ok with not going outside, but since this is the post-summer season, I need the curtains open, so I can monitor the gloom.
Science requires a control group and a repeatable outcome. Well, the outcome never changes, but I'm not touching the control group with a bulldozer and a flamethrower. You see, the control group would be Wife's clothes. It's not that she has a lot of them, but she changes them out twice a year - summer clothes and winter clothes (we only have 2 seasons anyway). This process takes from summer to winter, then the winter clothes have to be changed. So she's in a constant state of Clothing Flux. Her clothes do not disappear (we think). They migrate to other rooms. There are now more clothes in the bathroom than the entire block has. This would be ok if it were the entirety of the problem, but only a small amount of clothing migrates to the bathroom; the rest position themselves all over the house. When she complains, I suggest she not buy clothes that migrate. Then she reminds me all of her clothes are labeled non-migratory, yet they're still quite mobile. Hey, at least they don't migrate out of doors. We'd notice because the neighbors would finally come near our house. And don't get me started on the shoes.
Just as the best time to go job-hunting is when you have a job, the best time to go clothes-shopping is while you still have clothes. Turns out store employees and the local constabulary are not amused by naked shoppers. If you've seen me, you know it's not fair to other shoppers and police for me to be naked. So new clothes would be a stopgap solution, but if we continue to use this solution, my clothing bills will be insane. I'll have to print up my own money to pay for it. It'll be just like.. well... just like Congress and the national debt!
So if you have any ideas that can help me find the errant laundry, please leave me a comment or send a postcard:
lefty's Home for Wayward Women
Box 666
Los Angeles, Mars
Thank you.
They pulled out the Big Guns! Another article says there are religious suits brought by dems, claiming their religion allows abortion. Damn impressive litigation, Boys.
Where there's a lawyer, there's a way.
Oklahoma City roads took a pounding.
I mentioned in the last post Mrs. lefty's upcoming vacation (from me). As it turns out, Murphy, of the Laws, has a room at our house and sprinkled a little Murphy dust on her vacation.
It started out innocently enough, with a couple of weeks of an astoundingly nasty-sounding cough. So after only two weeks and constantly having to listen to me bitching about seeing a doctor, she called a doctor. I'm not sure what's going on at the doctor's office, but she got voicemail that gave the impression they were Quite Busy and they'd try to call back within 73 hours. If this is an emergency, go to the emergency room. If it's not an emergency, go to the emergency room. If you have sneezed in the past 37 days, someone will call you back. Hopefully. After a brief, loud and angry discussion, we decided on Urgent Care. Urgent Care means we urgently need the care and they urgently need to collect the copay up front, then we can hold our collective breath until somebody shows up. Surprisingly, an actual doctor stopped in and said he was an actual doctor - :Look, it's embroidered on my shirt." He took a look at the xray and showed it to us. I was in complete agreement; it was an xray. He directed us to one point where it was fuzzier than the rest of the points. He said he really didn't like the way it was fuzzy and the image of the Virgin Mary was out of focus. He suggested that since we were at Urgent Care. we go to the emergency room at the hospital to get our cat scanned. The joke was on him - we don't have a cat. Ok, there's a few hours of our lives we won't get back.
I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to get back to work, like I told my boss.
For unfortunate reasons, we're very familiar with the hospital. It's a very good hospital and we wouldn't hesitate to go. In fact, we keep going. I don't even complain about the place - that's how good it is.
Until today.
They took us right back, and by that I mean we were invited to sit in the cavernous waiting room for 3 hours until they took us right back. They took her blood pressure, her temperature, and her copay. This is getting repetitious. Then, POOF, we were right back in the waiting room. This is confusing, as we always get seen fairly quickly, within 2 days at most. The waiting room was the size of an airplane hangar, but it smelled more, of different gases. There certainly were enough chairs. Wife asked me why they were zip-tied together. There are many possible answers, none of them particularly appealing.
- to keep
inmatespatients from stealing them - the person who set up the room has OCD and nothing can be moved more than one centimeter (3 gallons Canadian).
- Fungu. Funged Up. Feng Shui
All God's children were waiting with us. I say this because I felt like I was taking a Greyhound cross country. The nice kid facing us decided it would be a good time to take a nap. And nap he did, featuring some wicked snoring. I was waiting, but not watching, for him to start playing with his junk. His shorts were certainly short enough. Speaking of which, we saw many people with short shorts. They were invariably overweight, with cottage cheese thighs, and in their 50s. People, do I really have to tell you not to do this in public, especially in a place where people are really sick? You are just making things worse for all of us. Since Wife was hacking up a lung, I thought we'd be granted wide berth, but aside from terrified looks, no one moved. This included the generously-endowed lady in the wheelchair, waiting for her generously-endowed mother, with a crutch, to help her to the bathroom. They were generously-endowed all over, to the tune of at least a hundred pounds each. The chairs are uncomfortable, to be polite. They figure you'll get so tired and aggravated that you'll just leave. Another brilliantly failed idea from Healthcare, Inc.
I was shocked to discover we needed to wear breathing arrestors (masks). I haven't worn one in months. This is another part of the failed theory: you'd feel like you couldn't breathe and run out of the E/R. I almost did. They had vending machines, of course. They would accept your debit card, but apparently were having trouble with accepting bills. But for their own amusement, they didn't tell anybody. Somewhere, in some business, in some back room, we're all on video, attempting to put bills in the bill slot, failing, and cursing. The other one required exact change. Why is it that every machine....
Hours later we were called into the Inner Sanctum. They explained this wasn't our actual room, but they could get started working. In English, this means Sit and we'll ask you the same questions somebody else did 3 hours ago. We might even take blood! Before the process was allowed to start, it was discovered they had the wrong name on the chart. Everything ground to a halt, while the Last Name Modification Squad was paged and helicoptered in. Within an hour, they had a new band all printed up for her. I was told this was a new record and not to tip them. Then they took blood. I wisely kept watch, across the room, by the door. Because they're too busy with the patient to bring a stretcher when I pass out. We've been away from home for about 7 hours at this point, and feel terrible for abandoning the dog. But you know what's coming, right? They want to put us back in the waiting room. I begged, pleaded, offered candy and/or sexual favors to just sit us anywhere that wasn't the waiting room. The fat kid was now snoring out the Top Ten Hits of the week. AND he found his junk. Or at least his girlfriend did. But the joke was on him - she wasn't his girlfriend. She just showed up and took advantage. Of course if you're a guy, it's not called taking advantage, it's called YEAH!
We told them Urgent Care did the xray and sent it to them. The joke, once again, was on us. They have no means of sending it over, but just like to make a show of being connected. They gave us a note from the doctor, but the hospital couldn't understand the writing. Round about Hour Nine, they took us to a room. And when I say a room, I mean a hallway. Literally. But it was outside a room, so that counts, right? They told Wife to put on a gown. Since we were in a hallway, they told her to find a bathroom (without entrails on the floor and ceiling) and change there. Approaching hour ten, she's had an xray, been two places, and donated some blood. We both lost our patience in different car crashes when we were little, so it wasn't pretty. Eventually they took her away. To the CAT Scanner, hopefully. The doctor came by her spot in the hallway to tell us she had multi-phasic Bronchothorax in 7 places. Since the normal is one place, it might be good to spend some time having it looked at (and billed for). They got two bags of disgusting bright yellow medicine with the nuclear sign on it into her. Now here's where it got tricky: while they were playing ping pong and thinking about a good floor to place her, they got trumped by the People Moving Experts, who showed up first to take her to her new new room. No benches, no snoring, no zip ties, just a bed. As it was already 47 minutes past visiting hours, I needed no other motivation to RUN AWAY! At least the dog was happy to see me, stamping her paw by the back door.
So yeah, that vacation she's supposed to be leaving on in a few days? I'm thinking the plans just got modified. Once they tell her she has to stay home with me, they will have to put her on suicide watch. Hopefully better than Epstein's people did.
Now let's tie this all together.
About the missing wash?
I was told some of it showed back up and was put in the washer a few days ago. So in the midst of waiting 10 hours at the hospital, I had to ask what ever happened to the laundry? "I told you." Uh-oh. "I said I put it in the washer and if I went to bed, you needed to put it in the dryer." No you didn't. but to argue is to invite putting myself in the hospital too. I asked if she has any sympathetic sisters who would feel terribly sorry that she's not home to do the wash. She was amused. "But there's no big problem." Translated: there's a big problem. "You just take them out of the washer, put them in the dryer for half the normal time, then put them in the washer again." [The sound of a grown man crying] Oh sure, that's way too simple. I thought it was going to be hard. What's the normal time of drying? Which blue liquid do I spill on myself? Which one's the washer? I used the number setting on the dryer because the word setting made me ask more questions. Maybe it should talk to me, like the damn elevators at the hospital. Sure, you've read about them and seen them on tv, but you're just not ready to hear them in real life. "First floor," it said smugly, "It's a shame you wanted the ground floor. Come back real soon, hear? It's true what people say - you really DO have a small penis. We can save you a spot in our Elevator Training Course. Just between us, I'd bring something expensive from the gift shop when you come up tomorrow." And ultimately, the joke was on her (the elevator) because everything in the gift shop is expensive.
I haven't brought it up at this point, but there will be a full inquiry as to when, where, and how the (dirty) laundry popped back up. We're going to get to the bottom of this, at least until my cranium is all crushed in from her hitting me with the cast iron pans she had to have for 'cooking.'
Her: Did you take it right out of the dryer?
Him: Ah... yes. Definitely the same day I put it in.
Her: Remember to hang my stuff up.
Him: Oh, do we have hangers?
Her: Look, I don't mind you doing it around the house, but if you're going outside, could you please take my underwear off your head?
Him: I don't wear your underwear on my head.
Her: You probably have it on now.
Him: What are you worried about - they're clean. In the winter, they keep my head warm.
Her: It's 92 degrees out and this hospital has a psych ward.
Him: What about the guys wearing wool hats in the summer? Those people should get a ticket to the Happy Place<tm>. But no... it's hip and fashionable to cut off your cooling in the extreme heat.
Speaking of which, I seem to be in on the ground floor of a terrible discovery. It's women. No, not just women. Women are growing stuff on top of their heads. First thing I saw on tv this morning was a morning show host with a large-ish.... thing(?)... contraption(?) on top of her head. First I thought it was an upside down flower pot. After careful consideration, I think it's a fez. An undercover fez. She could put the fez on and it would perfectly cover the thing on top of her head. I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I'd see the bright yellow tassel. Since I'm a guy, therefore hopeless, I asked Wife. She told me it was 'in.' Women are wearing things on top of their head. Since I am hopeless, I asked why. She answered non-verbally, with that look that says 'you're going to drop this right now, aren't you? I may stop cooking (and other stuff) entirely.'
But that wasn't the worst of it. She was right. I looked around, surreptitiously, meaning I was swave and deboner, and every woman knew I was looking at her, and I discovered she was right: they were all growing something Up There. It occurred to me at that moment that it spreads in the air, like the Flying AIDS. It attacks mostly women, but men too (man bun, anyone?). I wonder if that stupid mask will protect me. But the joke is on the virus: I can't grow hair there due to male pattern baldness. I'd need to get a Lee Press-On Man Bun.
Ladies (and hipsters), I dunno who told you that looks good, but they were messing with you. Last week at the library, my buddy behind the counter, a nice blonde lady, had something up top that was wound way too tight (she was too) and could have passed for a donut. Being married, I had to stop all the words coming to my mouth about eating donuts and setting her hair Free at last - thank God almighty, it would be free at last. We guys, at least the ones who notice stuff, love your hair covering your ears, down, curly, whatever. We're also smart enough to tell you how good it looks with half of it in a lump or two on top of your head. Maybe if we stopped lying, you wouldn't do it anymore. Of course we'd all be in the doghouse til 2035, but still....
Her: I put it up. Doesn't it look sophisticated?
Him: Uhhhhh, no.
BANG
Her: I put it up. Doesn't it look sophisticated?
Him: (thinking back) Why yes, it makes you look sharp and sexy.
Her: Good boy. Sit. Here's a treat.
Her: I put it up again because everybody tells me they like it.
Him: Errrr..... ummmm.... perhaps we could do our bit to fight global warming by not spraying it or anything to keep it up. I think it gives you a real air of authority but you know what would be even better? If you just let it down. Really. Ask Jenny. Stop fighting gravity. Let's get you the latest Flying AIDS shot and hopefully you'll be protected from anything else growing up there. Our neighbor has a whole shrubbery happening up top. Green does not go with her eyes.
I don't usually drink, but in the words of Lloyd Bridges, "I sure picked a bad time to stop sniffing glue."
Apparently I had also picked a bad time to stop shooting heroin.
Yes, I made a difficult yet honest attempt to visit the hospital the next day. Actually, to visit my wife, but hospital is as far as I got. I'm walking in and get accosted by the two Desk Ladies: who am I and where was I going? I'm looking around to see who they could be talking to because no one talks to me voluntarily. It's true... they only talked to me because they were getting paid for it. Ummm.... I'm lefty and I'm going to see my wife in 327Q2.
Her: What's your name?
Me: lefty
Her: What?
Me: lefty
Her: can you spell that?
Me: Yes
Her: How is it spelled?
Me: L like lavatory, e-f-t...
Her: L? Come around here, please.
They put up a huge semi-circular pane of plexi, obviously to keep out the Flying AIDS, with 2 small holes drilled in it to talk to the nice ladies. She called me over to the side, where there was no plexi, so she could hear me.
Her: Ok, spell that, please.
Me: L-e-f
Her: Don't you have any I.D.?
Me: No, sorry.
Her: Have you ever been here before?
Me: Yes, I've been here for over 30 years, and no one's ever asked me for anything.
Her: That's probably because you slipped past them.
Me: Lady, look at me... do I look like I can slip past people unnoticed?
Her: Ok, stand over there and I'll take your picture.
Me: No thank you.
Her: I can take your picture and you can go on up.
Me: I can't have my picture taken. It's religious and other stuff.
Her: I called Security and they said it's ID or picture. Want to talk to them?
Me: They don't sound very helpful, do they. What would you do with my license?
Her: Scan it.
Me: I see. It's a shame I don't have it with me.
Nice lady #2 pipes in: If it's a religious thing, you can wear a mask, get your picture taken, then pray about it later. It's a good thing I didn't ask about robbing banks.
At this point, the voices in my head are even louder than the ones outside, mostly arguing with or laughing at her. American Indians believe pictures will steal their soul. So I'm figuring getting their picture taken, even with a mask on, still leaves them short one soul. Obviously this nice lady failed her religion class, although she was obviously religious. Finally I could take no more, and didn't want to let the voices out, because that would be bad. I told them to take the picture with a mask. I told Number Two that she didn't want to know what would happen when they took my picture. Her eyes got wide, she actually slid her chair back and started blessing herself. If she had only realized I identified as Satan earlier, none of this would have been a problem.
Before you start saying I'm being horrible to two low wage employees who are only doing their jobs, I was quiet, polite, and told them I understood they were only doing their jobs.
It's only going to be about a week before they get hacked, along with all the other hospitals. My information is important to me and is absolutely NOT needed so I can visit my wife. I've been visiting people for 30 years successfully, without committing any illegal activities or surrendering my information or likeness.
So after the serious entrance grilling I was subject to, I found out they should have switched places with the nursing staff, who couldn't fscking be bothered to even check in on Wife. She had to go find them repeatedly. Two hours to change an IV bag. Four food trays were stacked up because no one ever took them away. After calling the room phone seven times with no answer, I did a little detective work and plugged the phone into the wall jack and BOOM - it worked! Just call me Einstein. While it wasn't a problem for me, the chair arm tended to fly out to the left. This will cause quite the accident and legal claim when it happens to someone else, though. Judging by their chronic inability to get IV bags, meds, or even water, I figured I was asking too much by trying to help them. Wife explained things to me this way: if I died, it would take them hours to notice it. Maybe a shift change too. Great. Now the favorite local hospital isn't even good enough to die at.
Then there was the physical therapy specialist we wished would not show up. She came by, the angels sang, she sat down and tried to completely mess up what Wife's doctor set up for her. This would also keep her in the hospital another few days, even though it wasn't why she was in the hospital in the first place.
This hospital used to be great. Great docs, nurses, and cafeteria. I was saving the best for last... the cafeteria has this great soft serve ice cream machine. Chocolate or vanilla. It was the only positive part of visiting my dying father. So you know in your heart of hearts that they took the machine away a while back. I was not amused when I found out. I walked around the hospital cursing a lot, in many different departments. Even people who worked at other hospitals knew about the ice cream machine. So obviously they had to get rid of it. They made a strategic mistake here... if your hospital is going to shit, keep the ice cream machine. Keep their minds off the medical care, or lack of thereof.
We asked Elizabeth, a recently departed monarch, what she thought of the departed ice cream machine. She/they were also not amused.
The head of the WHO (NOT Roger Daltrey) said the end of the Flying AIDS pandemic is in sight. I wonder if it's riding on a horse, or maybe a Tesla. It's easier to see if it's on a horse. Unfortunately this leaves the WHO without much to do, while it has the spotlight. It will be chatting with the CDC shortly, and will work on something else to extend its 15 minutes. It asks that you give it a while, as Lord Fauci has gone on to the Great Corporate Job in the Sky. All indications are that Monkeypox and Polio are really good prospects. The only problem with Monkeypox is that it is transmitted by touch. China is working on a version that's transmitted through the air, just like the Flying AIDS. They're ahead on polio, which somebody stumbled and turned loose in the New York City sewers. Bats are also a favorite.
Vaccines are being prepared, whether you need them or not.
As a guitar player, I got excited to see the email with the subect: Free Shred Events Coming Soon. Ooh, cool, they're probably bringing in some metal players. After a second look, the email was from my bank, about an event where you can shred sensitive paper. I wonder if they'll let us shred sensitive metal players....
Also as a guitar player, I'm excited about the latest Jeff Beck tour. You can hear it at sugarmegs.org, where you can download a ton of concert audio for free. Jeff's playing is in fine form, but he actually said two sentences in between songs, so he might have been an imposter. A few songs in appears an actual singer. Yes, it was Johnny Depp. It turns out he's not that bad a singer. No guitar player in their right mind could stand up on the stage with Beck and not feel like a total infant, but Depp acquits himself (oops) well by playing only steady rhythm. His voice will sound familiar to you. The best I can describe it is like Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits), but more controlled and less conversational (I like Mark Knopfler).
I'm waiting for John Malkovich to make a movie called "Being Johnny Depp" but there probably won't be one because it would get an X rating. How horrible it must be to be Johnny Depp. Sex, drugs, rock and roll - literally. And he doesn't just play some rock and roll, no sir. He does an album with one of the greatest guitar players of all time. Now they're touring, so we have to wonder what kinds of fun is happening backstage. This is the first tour Mrs. Beck has come out on, if that is any indicator. Jeff has the nerve not to be appearing in my entire state when he comes by. We might have to drive to New Jersey. Ugh.
- Deaf dog is adopted by Michigan teen with hearing loss — now they're 'inseparable'
- cuz we need a little of this today
Check out the new Frank Zappa video for Valley Girl.
Yes, he's dead, and the song is very old, but here we are. Anything to celebrate Frank is good with me. It seems odd that, while this song was famous, it became the very thing it was parodying. I fear if he saw it, he'd re-animate and kill some of his children for producing it. The best comment I got was "Dreadful."
Uber has been hacked, and reports stolen.
You should probably stay out of Uber vehicles and systems. The drivers were assaulting and killing passengers for a while. None of it seems very reliable. I'll bet their app is a nightmare with your information. So I'm thinking 'keep your health and life and information, vs get a popular ride share now.' You're a big boy or girl (or any of the 247 varieties in between) and can make your own decisions.
No comments:
Post a Comment