We're Being Strangled by Wireless Cell Phones

Your love is like  eating some bullets

SIM Swapper Abducted, Beaten, Held for $200k Ransom

I think we have the way out of malware....

Today I identify as  an umlaut

 I was just hung up on in text chat! I didn't even know it was possible.

I have now been hung up on in every way possible. My life is complete.

A $6 charge appeared on my phone bill, out of nowhere. The page told me it was for making a plan adjustment. After waiting 20 minutes for somebody who was hopefully brighter than the chat bot, I was told it's a surcharge and was notified months ago. Yes, I'm being charged $6 extra for keeping my existing plan. But if I wanted to upgrade to their spiffy new 5G unlimited free Apple music Disney+ plan at a similar rate, everything would be ok and God himself would smile upon me. I'd become a rock star and actresses and models would throw themselves at my feet.

That's nice, but I don't want or need that plan. The amount I use my phone is laughable. I never even came up to the 1gig limit when I had a 1g plan. Then they forced me to take a 5g plan, of which I don't use 1g. I don't use half of 1g. But she keeps telling me I could upgrade. I keep looking around the room to see who is typing here, because I kept typing that I wanted a tiny plan with limited data. Between you and me, I think God was getting angry, and I don't blame Him. I was screaming and the dog was barking.

I decided to play their game and asked how much was 'a similar price.'  Are you ready? My already ridiculous plan was going to go up to $105. Or keep paying a $6 surcharge. So I figured we'd play my game and asked her would she pay $105 monthly for a phone she barely used. I had to ask her 5 times because she kept ignoring me and trying to sell me the 5g plan. Her training was excellent, and I told her so, but she wasn't listening to the customer. That's when she 'hung up' on me.

Did I forget to tell you who my carrier is?  It's the one that rhymes with Purrizon. I've stayed with them forever, for the coverage. Not anymore, apparently. To make matters more funner, my phone won't work on the carrier I'm looking at.

I'm not positive who regulates the cell phone industry, but we're going to have a chat about Purrizon, and the industry in general. If enough people complain....

Now, let's talk about a related matter.  If your phone plan is $60 monthly, you're paying $60 PLUS $30 in TAXES, state, and federal nonsense. Your monthly bill is now $90. And I'm pretty sure you're not paying for a $60 plan. This is obscene. It's not the fault of the carriers, unless they tack on other charges. This is from our state and federal legislators. You might want to look at your bill and have a chat with them.

And now, the final chapter of the leftys vs the Hospital 

"Hey, come get me - I'm being discharged," she told me.

Rushing to the hospital with glee (my pet attack cheetah), she said we're just waiting for some paperwork.

Hour 1.

Hour 2.

Hour 3. - I didn't want to interrupt lunch at 2:30

Hour 4  - wait... I think we see a doctor. Flag him down, with a flamethrower.

Hour 5 - "You're a free woman," said the nurse,

Doctors all suffer from some sort of temporal disorder. They have no sense of time, like the DMV. They'll get to it in an hour actually means any time between 5 hours and next month. The hospital process is completely broken in the first place, but the discharge process has jumped ship and took off for Uranus.

Food Delivery Robot Casually Drives Under Police Tape, Through Active Crime Scene

There is no better way to point out that self-driving vehicles are Not Ready for Prime Time than this. No one was mowed down, inside or outside the vehicle. The only thing that would make this better would be a 4 hour gun battle, with police shooting the robot full of lead. And the robot still delivering the food.

What actually happened was a nearby bomb hoax at a high school. While the hoaxers were waiting, they ordered pizzas. Sounds reasonable, no?

Bridgestone has put more than $100M into eco-tires made of shrubs

You must bring me.... a SHRUBBERY

Yes, eventually everything goes back to Monty Python.

Gates-Funded 'Green Revolution' in Africa Has Failed, Critics Say

When philanthropists spend vast sums of money on a project, jubilation and high expectations ensue. But money doesn't necessarily produce results.

A case study, according to critics, is the push for a "green revolution" in Africa, which has spent $1 billion to date, much of it from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation.

They write these headlines just for me. 

Well, what do you expect from the developer of a failed operating system?

We have been sending billions in aid to Africa, yet things never improve. Why is that?

I know that politicians had themselves exempted from spam laws. Yesterday I got a text from the NAACP, asking me to help get black people to the polls. The NAACP, as far as I know, isn't a politician, although this might tell me more than I wanted to know. I will tell the NAACP what I tell everybody: until there is a left handed history and appreciation month, I'm not helping anybody.

As far as I know, I'm also not black, if that's a requirement.

Of course it doesn't end there.... Google is launching a pilot program to keep political emails out of the junk pile. Not that having a gmail account is a good idea, but how about giving everybody a choice?

Don't want to get run over by a Ford car? There's a Bluetooth app for that

I keep banging the warning gong because self-driving software is just not ready yet, but is being foisted upon an unsuspected public, ready to mow down a few citizens. Ford has a Bluetooth app to keep you from getting run over by a Ford car. It's a great idea in a vacuum, til you realize you can still get run over by every other brand self-driving car. While an interesting idea, it's attacking symptoms instead of the problem. Have I mentioned the range of Bluetooth would require beyond-human reflexes and perhaps a small physics change to allow your safety?

Wanda Sykes used to work for the NSA. Uh-oh. Laugh at my jokes or I'll have you taken to a place where they will never find your bones. That aside, privacy and civil rights groups are putting on the pressure not to air Ring Nation, which will feature video taken from Ring doorbell cameras. They're normalizing surveillance. 

Footage from Ring cameras was used to track and monitor protesters who took to the streets, exercising their First Amendment rights, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. These are not isolated incidents. Racial profiling and racist policing are core components of Ring’s business model, which profits off fear.”

Remember: Ring operates independent of the Fourth Amendment. It has become a huge surveillance network that works without warrants or oversight.

After news that an AI-generated painting won a prize, creative-type people are really seeing red, claiming AI is killing art. Hollywood is working on a statement and we have the draft: How the hell are we supposed to make millions for a movie, so we can walk around and say things, as if we were important and our voice somehow counted for more than the Ugly Americans? We will all have to get real jobs. How can we ever walk on red rugs, get trophies, pat each other on the back, and bitch because we deserved that, if we have to get jobs? It's not like we have the skills to work at convenience stores or gas stations. Society sends us to Hollywood because we have no discernible talent (and some of us are waaay better looking than the rest of you). 

I would never bolster their case, but we said drum machines and rap were killing music. We weren't wrong. 

The Department of Homeland Security (the Motherland) has awarded nearly $700,000 to help keep gamers from becoming terrorists. Security Theater has gone completely off the rails. More of your money will be heading to other known radicalizing activities and trades, such as plumbing, jump rope, sweeping up after elephants at the circus, and working at the DHS. 

Urgent Care. For Laundry.

 

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.

Restricted Access to Abortion Is a Threat to National Security, Study Finds

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. 

Tractor Trailer Overturns, Spilling Truckload of Vibrators on Mustang Road

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. 

1. to keep inmates patients from stealing them
2. the person who set up the room has OCD and nothing can be moved more than one centimeter (3 gallons Canadian). 
3. 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.

English Cockers Watch BBC News

There is a linux command called fallocate. I don't use it, because it sounds too dirty.

The FBI asked Google for help. No, really. They subpoenaed Google for location information of phones in a bank robbery.  This practice is getting worse. Turn off location. Anybody who watches Law and Order or other police shows, is being prepped for this going wide.

Government also asked Google for information on 10,000 people who downloaded a rifle site app. This was leaked. This is getting out of hand.... contact your reps - I am.



Ever watch those police/EMS/hospital shows and observe the tests they give people?

Police: stand with one foot in front of the other, then hold up one leg and dance on the other, while singing Dixie. Hop into the air, using one leg only. Spin 10 times and don't fall down. Now that you're bruised and battered, how many things did I ask you to do?  C'mon - I can't do that sober.

EMS/hospital/mental hospital: What day is it? What year is it? What is your Social Security number backwards? What was the name of your kindergarten crossing guard? Looks like we'll be keeping you a while....

• There is a viral video of a Whataburger back room, where a rat dives into the deep fryer.  Maybe he's been reading Political FB too.

As mentioned, an Australian university is lowering the bar for female admittance to university, to get more women into Tech.

I seem to remember trying this many years ago. It didn't work out well, created resentment, and offended the people it was intended to help because it assumed they weren't talented enough to get the job on their own.

I know someone who wasn't hired because, although her test score was higher, she was a caucasian. The bar was also lowered for Philadelphia Police. Sorry, kids, but I want the best and brightest doing that job - just like designing bridges.

Friends, it's entirely possible Women in Tech is a created emergency, based upon nothing but wishes of SJWs. Women are every bit as smart as men, sometimes smarter. If they want tech jobs, all they have to do is learn and apply - there is no preference in hiring. Maybe there's just a shortage of women interested in tech. There are certainly a lot of women already in tech, advocating for more women in tech.

Women playing guitar have not had similar fits about Women With Guitars. Guitar playing is entirely opt-in. There is no bar to entry, even if you're incompetent. As a matter of fact, you're more likely to garner attention if you're female and memorable for any one trait - not necessarily your playing.  Maybe there's a shortage of women interested in playing the guitar.  Just like jobs, I want to see people who are really good at it - not preferentially-chosen for internal plumbing practitioners.



Dear lefty

• Why are you mad at me?
• Because your wife gave me herpes.

Two US military experts have proposed giving artificial intelligence control over the nuclear launch button.  What could possibly go wrong?

• Best line: These are monster worm casts, created by monster worms.

Tulsi Gabbard (D-Wherever) is effectively out of the running for Democratic nomination for president.  It's safe to say this is why:

Presidents of both parties have wasted trillions of tax dollars on regime change wars and new cold war. This must end. I’ve seen the cost of war first-hand, and as your commander in chief, I’ll stand up against the warmongering foreign policy establishment clamoring for more war.

• Coming soon: Andrew Dice Clay and Roseanne Barr - Mr. & Mrs. America (I didn't make this up)

All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.  - Blaise Pascal

• If you say, "OMG" in real life, please don't stand near me.

We continue to visit my dad in the hospital, after his multi-pack of strokes. Fortunately he improves visibly every day. It's rough, taking my mother to and from every day, but we do what we have to.  I almost lost it the other day... I was in the cafeteria and the ice cream machine broke. Can you imagine?  A very nice employee told me that opening and closing the service door would fix the machine. That was so intuitive, I should have known it already.

After that near-death struggle with the ice cream machine, I showed up in the morning. The ice cream machine was working (breakfast of champions) but we need to pull Dad out of that place... there is only Wawa coffee. For those of you not from the hood, Wawa is a convenience store, like 7-11 or Circle K. It's a great place, except for the alleged coffee. It's largely water, with some brown coloring, and was originally sat next to a can of instant coffee. Dad says the place is great, but he's never tried the coffee.



No thanks, I'd rather be a troubled boy scout with daddy issues



Hong Kong protesters are grabbing tear gas grenades, lobbed at them by the State, and putting them in liquid nitrogen canisters, deactivating them.  Insert stereotypical Asian reference.




Heroes of the Stupid

A teen girl was ruled guilty of child porn for texting an explicit video of herself.
No.




SJW Shenanigans

A British actress is very upset because people are body-shaming her.
They are mocking her knockers.
Yes, she's being shamed for having large mamallian protuberances.
Boobie-ism at its worst.
Did you ever, in your wildest dreams, see this coming?

I'm going out on a limb and guessing the boob-shamers are women. Why? When was the last time a man said, "No - those breasts are too big for me"? 

Endings

Don't read this.
It's not funny, it's not pretty, it's not even sarcastic.



















But since you're reading anyway....


There's no good or pleasant way to say this: we're watching someone die.

John was puttering along, as he did. At some point recently, something appeared on his face and grew quickly. Reluctantly he went to the emergency room, where they said cancer of lung and brain. See an oncologist quickly.

John has no insurance. This is no problem at hospitals, as they can get a claim for Assistance put through and paid. This IS a problem for anything else, medically speaking.  John went to the doctor, with my wife's assistance, and waited two hours, only to be told he needed to get 'into the system' before he could be seen. Into the system involves a kind of impossible to navigate maze that's akin to fighting City Hall. Go here, go there, that line, no this line, you have to see her but she's not in this week, etc.... Finally they managed to find one sweet, kind lady who gave them some tips, but it could still take two weeks.

Meanwhile, my wife snuck John into the office of a big local oncologist. He agreed totally with the diagnosis but couldn't get anything done because his hospital wouldn't do tests without insurance.

FOUR WEEKS LATER John was In The System and got an appointment with an oncologist, who said he had to go to a primary doctor first. The man has cancer. How the hell does anybody get treated for anything in PA? The primary eventually saw him and sent him to the oncologist. Everyone agreed: lung cancer, spreading to brain and one other area.  The prognosis was "Not fixable but treatable."

When the doctor said "Not fixable but treatable", his wife heard "treatable." Someone needed to hammer home the "Not fixable" part.  John seemed to know.

His dog, fifteen and not well, would get up frequently to check on him while he slept. Someone joked that they were both waiting to see who would go first.

First chemotherapy went well. The thing on his head shrunk. But he had good days and bad days. Most of the time he was incoherent or screaming at his wife. People had to stand on each side of him to get him to appointments. Unfortunately these people were largely his wife and my wife, with her cane. Although his wife swore he wouldn't get sent to a facility, it looked like it needed to happen.

Fast forward to the second primary doctor visit. No one could get John off the bed, no less to the car. My wife, who quietly said she'd be surprised if he lasted another few weeks, revised her estimate to the weekend.

I worked with a guy who passed out and went to the hospital, where they discovered brain cancer. They were doing chemotherapy but he died within a week or two. Sad as we were, it was a blessing. He did not suffer, which was the most important thing. I'm hoping John isn't suffering. We can't ask him.

=====================

This afternoon we got word John was rushed to the hospital. Dropping everything, we went to keep them company. In the midst of horror there was humor: sadly, emergency rooms have metal detectors and my wife couldn't get through because of her copious amount of bracelets. Since they couldn't all come off, she was relegated to the outdoors.

I sat with his wife and noticed John was being bagged (manually breathed for) by a nurse. He had stopped functioning and they were trying to restart him. He needed to be transferred to another hospital with an Intensive Care Unit. Nobody thought this was a good idea but nobody had much of a choice. He failed twice on the ride over.

In the ICU, with plenty of pain medicine, it took about two hours until John left us.
I hope he didn't suffer too much. I hope we served him well.

They said the cancer was extremely aggressive. There was no way it could have been caught in time. It was not pretty.

The dog was put down because he was suffering and not eating. I guess he knew.

John McCain: This Means WAR!

Yesterday I heard an interview with John McCain. I didn't get to transcribe it fully but here's the gist from memory:

Welcome to Beat the Press. Today's guest is Senator John McCain (R-Lockheed).

Good morning, Senator.

WHERE?

Here, Senator.

Oh.

Senator, we're discussing the recent bombing of a hospital in Afghanistan.

Yes, it's a crying shame (that we didn't get more of the commie bastards).

But Senator, the hospital was full of sick people.

Taleban. TALEBAN.  Kill. KILL!

Doctors Without Borders says there was no Taleban in the hospital.

Doctors Without Borders is a terrorist organization, bent on getting in the way of exporting democracy.

Were there any Taleban in the hospital?

No, but they were certainly in the area.  Somewhere.

But not in the hospital?

No. But those Doctors were, so we stepped up and dropped a few. Dropped. DROPPED. KILL. BOMB! EVISCERATE!!!!!

Senator, there has been some criticism over using the B-34 Flying Uncontrolled Country Killer (FUCK). This plane features enough tactical killing power to take out small regions of the planet. Do you believe this was the correct way to take out a small hospital?

Bob...

My name is Ted, Senator.

Bob... I believe the right tool is the one that gets the job done. We flew in and took out the target. If we could have used more bombers, we could have taken out the hospital and the rest of the country where the Taleban must be hiding. But we are using more surgical strikes lately, so as not to interrupt the cocaine trade. President Kennedy pissed the CIA off once and look what happened to him. And Bob, I'm no John F. Kennedy.

But there were innocent sick people in the hospital.

Bob, have I said ISIS yet? Because ISIS. New munitions needed. More contracts. Boeing, Lockheed, Halliburton.. MORE CONTRACTS!!!  CIA Secret Missions!!!! Think of the economy, BOB!!!

Ted.

Casualties of war, Bob. Collateral damage. We are very sad at the loss of life but it's the black guy's fault. If he didn't start that drawdown, we could have continued our mission indefinitely. More troops. We will complete our mission, even if it takes longer than Vietnam.  ISIS, Bob.

What is our mission in Afghanistan?

We are working towards ramping up our casualties... errr.... troops... because of a very large contract with a huge, influential defense contractor.  We just gave them hundreds of billions for new explosive killing vehicles (EKVs). It would be a horrible waste of taxpayer money not to use them. Killing vehicles... killing... KILLING.. BOMBING... WIDESPREAD DEATH AND DESTRUCTION!!!!  baaaaaa........ [falls off chair, foaming at the mouth]


Beat the Press would like to thank the (very) late senator John McCain.

The Unemployment Follies (#5)

Well, it's been a real whirlwind since I last wrote.  And when I say a whirlwind, I mean that much effort has been put forth for absolutely nothing of any consequence in terms of gain.  Oh sure, I've been solicited for jobs halfway across the state, in the next state over, the state on the other side, up north of the next state over; for security guard, software engineer, governance manager (?), relationship director, project manager, and of course, my monthly offer for insurance sales.

I even had a call from a recruiter who was excited about a position, wanted to send my resume and references right over, set up a lunch for us, and never called back or responded to emails.  I specifically avoided references to his mother or family members and farm animals, as I'm told this could be considered offensive by some people.

As I type this, I just discovered that my Linked-In picture was taken down for violation of their terms. When you consider that the picture is of my pets, I fail to get this alleged violation.  Let's face it, a large number of Linked-In pictures are not pictures of the account owner.

HOUSE

My wife has gone on a house cleaning spree. This came as a shock to both of us, causing me to join her.   We've taken untold amounts of bags to the curb, freeing untold amounts of space inside the house. I even discovered there is carpet next to my bed.  While I will cop to being a slob, I'm not claiming responsibility for this, instead preferring to blame it on the dog.  I tidied and arranged all reading material on the side of the bed. The dog proceeded to untidy every single page, in addition to tearing the trash apart on a nightly basis.  After two or three times, I gave up and let him rearrange things to his liking.  Even after we got a flip-top trash can, he still goes there first, every single evening, to see if there is any more tasty trash that needs to be shredded (all over the bed).

With all of this wonderful new-found space, the items in my house are having a difficult time adjusting.  In fact, they're having such a difficult time, they're acting out.  I just watched my wife carry some wash downstairs and a vacuum randomly put itself in her way and got knocked over as a result.  Whenver I reach for something on a clean table, something else falls off.  It's only a matter of time until things start leaping about the house on their own.  One guest swore a cup hurled itself at her.  She was probably correct.


CAR

You know what's coming, right?

It's been quite a few weeks.

Our insurer has missed us.

Yes, someone hit the car. Again.  In fact, I stopped counting a while ago.  Guitar players can't count past four anyway (and I know my limitations.. 1-2-3-4!).  I can only estimate and I refuse to estimate, as it would make me sad(der).  We didn't even report the last time it happened.

This time, some idiot stopped short, caused my wife to stop short, causing the brand new black Mercedes behind her to slam right into her. He tried to avoid the car, managing to only ruin one rear corner of the Target Hyundai.  This being Philthydelphia, they had to wait two hours for the police. I suppose she was lucky, as the Philthy cops don't usually respond to anything that doesn't involve a gun. Did I mention that the idiot who caused the accident drove away?

This morning I am yanked out of bed at some horrid hour (before noon) because someone's coming over.  Why should I care?  Because something happened and the bank account needs money or we won't be able to pick up a rental car.  So someone's coming over with money, bless them.

I am horrified.

I got into the car for the first time, post-accident, this morning.  As we're driving down the street, I hear a really bad rubbing of some sort.  Turning to the wife with that look, she explained that she told me about this.

Huh?

Yeah, it's ok.

Huh?  The horrible rubbing noise is ok?

Yeah, the guy(?) said it was ok.

What guy?

The guy from the accident.

Ah.

So I'm driving, my heart (and wallet) pounding due to the rubbing noise (that's ok). When we parked, I took a look for the root of the rubbing.  No problem, I said... it's only the broken, very hot exhaust pipe, sitting against a rear tire.  No, it's ok.

Is your skull coming apart at the seams yet?  Mine is.

Finally we managed to obtain a rental car.  It's a lot nicer than our car, even if we're just talking about the extreme lack of dents and parts hanging off it.  Since it's black, the polar opposite of white, our luck will be much better with this one.  And I say this because the last rental we got when the last bit of body work had to be done after the last accident, had to have its mirror replaced after someone hit that.  The cost of the Mirror Operation exceeded the amount I paid for each of my first three cars.

Following the wife to the dealer, I pulled in behind her. This was made more difficult by the random parking arrangements of the existing cars.  But all of this was no matter, as this was the wrong location. The correct body shop location was a few blocks down the road (it's all the same dealership).

After locating the correct body shop, we somehow managed to park (this place had the same Parking IQ as the last one).   Some lady, with an 'I just sucked on a lemon' look, came past me and drove our car to the garages.   A few minutes later my wife comes up to me and says we may have to cancel the entire operation, as they won't look at the car for a few weeks if it's driveable.  I point out that it's not driveable, given the rubbing (that's ok).  Lemon Face brought a mechanic out, pointing out the correct area of damage (differentiating it from the other areas of damage).  Mechanic agree with me.  As it turned out, the rubbing noise (that's ok) turned out to be not ok.

Wife explained that Lemon Face was agitated and didn't want to admit the car for repair. Regardless, the repair would take two to three weeks.  For some reason, business is good for the humongous dealer's body shop (with twenty bays or more).  And I thought it was just us....


GIMPY

I casually asked my wife why her walking was worse than normal.  She casually answered that her knee had been bothering her since the accident.

DING!

I didn't want to overstep my boundaries or appear parental but I suggested that she stop cleaning for a few moments and if her knee hurt, maybe, perhaps, she should get it looked at professionally.

I didn't want to bother you.

DING!



I want my wife back.

And my car.

And my typing, which has gotten extremely dyslexic lately.


Meanwhile, the dealer, body shop, car rental place and insurance person all know us on a first-name basis.

Is That a Divot in Your Leg or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Strange times have (once again) invaded the loony bin that is my house.  They (whoever they are) keep telling me that I need to emphasize the positive, so I can verify that we have not been set upon by the IRS because of our libertarian, small-government beliefs.

Our names haven't surfaced in relation to Benghazi, nor have we ever heard from Hillary Clinton.

We have not heard anybody ordering coffee in the background while we're on the phone, so there's that.

We have no data in the cloud, so we're safe that way.

Now that I'm done emphasizing the positive, I can get back to my narrative.

Saturday morning Mrs. leftystrat hurt something in the shower.  She limped to the couch and sat down. And when I say sat down, I mean she oriented herself south and threw her body at the couch, in a process we refer to as Elephants with Tutus.  Or, as a friend says, Princess Grace.

The scream that ensued was not of this earth.

It sounded like she ripped something.

"It feels like I ripped something," she told me.

Five minutes later, when the screaming stopped, she discovered it was incredibly difficult to get around.  Her normal clodding about became more of a stuttering clod, followed by something that sounded like "mrmmmph... OH."

I shrunk into my chair in horror.

Things were so bad that I had to drive her to her scheduled appointment.  This is bad.  I asked if it was Hospital Time yet and was told no in no uncertain terms.

Sunday morning, in the middle of a rather interesting dream involving a different Karen, a model and a lesbian from work, I was awakened.

Why, you ask?

Because it was Hospital Time<tm>.

Once or twice a year I drop my constant use of sarcastic replies and this was it.  It took Yes Dear to a whole new level.

Emergency examinations are an exam apart from Regular examinations.  Some distant relative of Hitler grabbed my wife's leg and asked her if it hurt.

No.

How about here?

No.

How about here?

AAAAAAAAH.

Good.  How about here?

No.

It's not like the doc was looking for range of motion.... it's more like she was looking for all sorts of new ways to cause pain (for reasons only she and psychiatrists understand).

Finally one of the more alert doctors noticed what could only be called a divot on her leg.  The diagnosis was torn something or other that sounded like Velociraptor.  And the only relief would be motrin and staying off it.  She left with a soft splint-thingie, which kept slipping down her leg.


Let me say another nice thing (who am I and what have I done with leftystrat?): the hospital was terribly efficient and we were out within ninety minutes.


NOW WHAT?

I can deal with all sorts of situations.  I am a decent guy to have near you in an emergency: I only panic over stupid little shit, not the Big Stuff<tm>.  I waited on my wife like professional staff.  Since the docs mandated rest and relaxation, she was up the steps, down the steps and on the front steps to smoke.  The real question the doctors needed to ask was if the injury was so serious it interrupted smoking.  Because there's virtually nothing that can interrupt smoking (with the possible exception of death, but that's just a theory of mine).

The children were being more uncooperative than normal and a bit differently than normal.  Usually Ren, the cat, is the difficult one.  Lately they have switched places and Marshall, the dog, has become Hell on Legs.

I have described Cat Food Ballet before.  This is the process by which the little monsters are fed in the morning.  Unfortunately for me, things have gotten further out of control.

I go in the kitchen to feed Ren and close the door.  I feed Marshall on the other side.  In the midst of that, Ren opens the kitchen door and Marshall runs in, horfing up every last crumb of cat food.  When he's done with the cat food, he stands up and raids the trash can.  He's never done with the trash can. We recently discovered that both of them can flip the trash can over too.

While Marshall is in the midst of Trash Feast 2013, Ren has taken off to the dog food, which he is hungrily crunching up.  When I scream "GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD, REN," he reluctantly moves away; one of the few times he bothers to listen.  Of course at this point, he moves away until he thinks I am done watching.

Most times after I yell at Ren, Marshall comes running, whining at Ren, and gets back into his own food.

I got so tired of watching these two lunatics running in and out of the kitchen that I finally put a ladder up against the kitchen door so neither of them could get it.  This was followed by minutes of blessed silence, until such time I had to feed the cat again.

Ren stayed in the kitchen and I put the ladder back up.  Unfortunately this didn't hold as well as last time and he kept ramming his nineteen pound bulk against the door, finally sending the leaning ladder over backwards.  Right onto a picture, smashing the glass.

I'm quite surprised that the neighbors haven't called the authorities, what with all the strained-voice yelling "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. AND YOUR LITTLE DOG TOO!"  If my wife didn't smoke on the front step, they would be concerned that I killed the lot of them.  Except for the crazy lady next door... she's mostly deaf.  And very dumb.

When everything settles for more than a few seconds, Marshall starts whining that he has to go outside.  Oddly enough, outside can mean anything from outside to "I want to get into the trash and check the cat food situation, Dad."

Recently we discovered that someone was eating at Cat Box Cafe.  Guess who?

Marshall just got his summer haircut.  Nobody knows why but after he returns, he spends every second physically in contact with me or my wife.  He sleeps anchored to me, frequently on my pillow (in spite of my sending him back down to the other end - he just creeps back up seconds later).  He's currently attached to my wife on the couch.  He's like a large, squirmy back pillow (that farts).


This velociraptor tearing thing has to end.  I simply don't have the patience to take care of Beelzebub's Bunch and my wife at the same time.

It's a Gallbladder!

Yes, at approximately 12:35pm today, my wife gave birth to a gallbladder.  Mother is sore but well, father is much better because he didn't have to watch.

Everybody was really surprised, as the entire routine took about four hours, house to house.  Apparently this type of thing used to require an overnight stay and a lot of grief.

Having worked in the field, I don't like doctors and I like hospitals less.  But I have to say that the experience was not bad, all things considered.  The hospital ran like a well-oiled machine, the surgeon was on time and visited me immediately after, and the staff was competent and really personable.

For those of you familiar with gallbladders, this was apparently an interesting case.  Initial symptoms looked a lot more like gastritis than gallbladder.  The diagnosis was a bit of a surprise but we trust the diagnostician.  The tests barely showed anything wrong.  The surgeon said he only operated because of the family history.  He was shocked to find the bladder was bogged, whatever that means.  Apparently it was much worse than any of the indicators.  He said the timing was right because it might have burst in the next two weeks.

We'll take those odds.

Once again we had a reminder that you have to be up on your condition and your meds before and after the procedure.  In spite of getting about five doctors together on pain meds, the staff still questioned my wife about the meds.  She actually brings a list of her meds with reason, dose, and prescribing doctor noted in case there are any questions.  In spite of this, they still tried to give her narcotics for pain (her pain meds are non-narcotic).

In short, don't go along for the medical ride.  Question everything and go no further until you're satisfied with the answers.  The life you save may be your own.

==========================

You know for a fact that absolutely no outing could possibly proceed without grief (hence this blog), so allow me to let loose.....

Since when do you need to show up at the hospital with two hundred dollars before you have a procedure?  Answer: since we got HMOs and since my coworkers are apparently crack addicts.

Follow this logic (if you can):  too many people were using emergency rooms as their primary care, so the insurance slapped on a fifty dollar fee for using the emergency room; waived if you got admitted.  Then it went to one hundred dollars.  I get the point- you were being penalized for using the emergency room.

I recently discovered that if admitted, there is now a five hundred dollar fee!  So now we're being penalized for being admitted, as opposed to being penalized for just appearing in the emergency room.  

When I complained to my benefits people about the fees, they told me those fees got raised so they didn't have to raise other fees.

And that helps me how?

============================

So I'm minding my own business in the waiting room, which is an impressive feat.  Today was especially cold, perhaps out of spite.  The hospital doors opened right into the waiting room, dumping large amounts of arctic air into the area.  

There was a very large flat-screen television mounted in the corner of the room.  You could see it from outside.  But even if you couldn't see it, you could hear it.  There was no apparent way to turn down the thunderous aural assault.  To make matters worse, there was no apparent way to change the damn channel either.

I cannot afford a flat-screen television that large.  Strangely enough, I cannot afford two hundred dollars copay for the procedure either, yet there I sat, traumatized by both.

There were several signs on the wall that I truly appreciated.  They told everyone to be courteous to your neighbors by not talking loudly, especially on cell phones.

Personally I thought it was a violation of the Geneva Convention to force anyone in a confined area to watch The View.   Perhaps this hospital never got the memo.  Next up, possibly to rhyme, possibly just to annoy, came The Chew.

I know this in spite of never having looked at the screen.  I was trying to check email and amuse myself in other ways.

It was at about this point that I got company in the waiting room.  There was one fellow closer to the television but by the look on his face, I think he was incoherent long before he sat down.  To my right was the television, to my left were two yentas.  Yenta is a Yiddish word meaning chatterbox or ratchetjaw.  So here were the perfect pair of negative Jewish stereotypes for my amusement.

But amusement is not really accurate.  Nor bemusement.  Perhaps something a bit closer to Two Hour Trip to Hell.  When I die, I figure I'm going south anyway.  If it's every bit as bad as its press indicates, hell will be eternity at Chuck E. Cheese's.

You have to understand my plight... thunderous bad tv on my right and two loud yentas to my left.  There was simply nowhere to go.  The phrase stereo assholes most accurately depicts my dilemma.

The Chew is apparently some sort of cooking show.  I would place it squarely in the Annoying Cooking Show category in spite of not watching many cooking shows.  Suffice it to say Jacques Pepin it wasn't.   What made the show more intolerable was the color commentary from the yentas....

tv:  ...we start with olive oil

yenta #1:  ooh, I don't use olive oil.

yenta #2: yeah, it's too expensive.

yenta #1: right.

I'm still trying to read something on my phone.  

tv:  we'll be right back.

yenta #1:  there are too many commercials

yenta #2:  yes there are

yenta #1:  I wish they wouldn't have so many commercials

Now I'm trying to read a book.  And failing.

yenta #1:  where do we check the status?

yenta #2:  I don't know - go to the desk.

yenta #1:  there's nobody there

yenta #2:  isn't that just perfect.  Nobody's home.

yenta #1:  there should be somebody there

yenta #2:  yes there should.  They're absolutely horrible.

yenta #1:  horrible.

I'm reading the signs up on the wall, which state to be courteous to your neighbors by not talking loudly, especially on cell phones.  I was thinking of repeatedly pointing to the signs but I had no way of knowing if either of them could read.  And by this point the other guy was looking even more glazed over than before.  I'm not positive but I think he killed himself rather than having to listen to the yentas for another minute.

And I felt a sudden pang of jealousy.

yenta #1:  oh my God, it was eight minutes.

yenta #2:  eight minutes?

yenta #1:  eight minutes before they went to commercial!  I timed it.

yenta #2:  so you need to pick up his prescription?

yenta #1:  yes, on the way home.

yenta #2:  [groan] how long will it take?  

yenta #1:  i don't know.

yenta #2:  you know you can't just take a prescription in and expect it to be filled on the spot.  It doesn't work like that.

I noticed I was reading the same paragraph over and over again.

yenta #2:  is he done yet?

yenta #1:  wait, let me look at the board... it says he's in ABC1.

yenta #2:  what does that mean?

yenta #1:  wait, let me look again.  Maybe he goes to ABC2 after.

yenta #2:  go find someone and ask.  Sheesh.

yenta #1:  there's nobody there.

yenta #2:  still?  This is terrible.  You'd think it was their job!

And if I shoot them, I will be the bad guy.

yenta #1:  it's very cold out.

yenta #2:  yeah, well, they shouldn't put the door so close.  Am I taking you to the pharmacy?  Maybe you can tell them it's an emergency for the sick patient in the car.  Because if I have to wait, you're walking home.  They should have told you this up front.

yenta #1:  they did tell me.  They gave me prescriptions.  Oh no - another commercial.  I forgot to time it this time.  So many commercials.

Some argue religion.  Some argue supreme beings or deities.  I am here to tell you that angels exist, ladies and gentlemen.  I saw my first one today.  Yes, she was dressed in scrubs so you couldn't see her wings but she was an angel all the same.  She stepped into the waiting room and asked if the yentas were there to pick up Steve.  The yentas said yes and stood.  It was at this precise moment that I could see her halo and golden light filled the room as the yentas prepared to get the )$*# out of my waiting room.

It saddens me that I shall never again see a sight as beautiful.

At that point, all I had to do was wait.  And listen to soap operas in my right ear.

Hospital Hijinks

It's been a rough few weeks, as evidenced by my less than stellar output.  Hopefully the forest can now be distinguished from the trees (as well as the logging equipment) and I can return to some sort of (ab)normalcy.

If you have ever been in the hospital, you couldn't wait to get out.  Getting out of the hospital, whether emergency room or inpatient, is a very long, involved process beginning with doctors telling you that you're going to be discharged.  Hours later, nurses start telling you to get ready.  Then more of those wondrous hours go by and you hear from nobody (except the person collecting the television fee).

Just a few short hours later, you wander over to a convenient medical-looking person and ask them when, exactly, you're going to go home.  You feel just a tiny bit closer to your house after the janitor you just asked heads off to find a nurse (the only one who knows anything at all in the entire building).

"Hmmmm," the nurse says... "the doctor said he was doing your paperwork and then you could go home."

You inquire whether the nurse has seen said doctor in the past few millenia, to which the answer is always a resounding NO.  Being the helpful sort she is, she wanders off to locate Dr. Flatzenfuss.

But a few short hours later, the nurse locates Dr. Flatzenfuss, who is on his way to the floor to do the paperwork.  Little do you know that on his way is code for `hold your breath, sucker'.

Don't bother asking why, if the doctor said you were being discharged, he didn't fill out the paperwork on the floor on which he was working at that moment.  The answer is a medical secret to which literally no one knows the answer.

In case you're wondering if I made this whole thing up, the answer is no.  I actually sat by, helpless, while my wife was at the mercy of these jokers.  But as you well know, I get distracted, and more importantly, bored easily.  With all that spare time, I decided to think up a few ways to speed up the discharge process a bit:

1. Stand out in the hall yelling MRSA! 
2. Keep demanding that the nurses line up for my inspection
3. Water ballooning the residents
4. Hospital bed races
5. Hitting the code button to call the nurses.
6. Referring to the md's as medical disappointments (or mentally deficient)
7. Hook the wireless heart monitor up to someone else.
8. Phoning the desk and ordering pizzas for other rooms
9. Every time the monitor bells ring, look dazed and threaten to assassinate RFK
10. Start filling out your own discharge paperwork
11. Make the beds in other patients rooms
12. Take food orders in other rooms
13. The old carrot sticks up the nose trick
14. Asking the doctors if they mind if you smoke near the oxygen
15. Inciting the other patients to riot
16. Programming the heart monitor to say you're dead. 

Needless to say, I managed to get the eight hour discharge window down to a more respectable four hours.


I leave you with this thought: 

If cell phone radiation is bad for you, why do hospitals use wireless telemetry, attaching the transmitter to the patient's (open) gown?