Eternal Rest Room Part 1

Since I am having some trouble coming up with original content of my own, let me use someone else's! I am pretty certain this guy won't mind. He died in 1998 (7 May 1944 - 12 Dec 1998). He used to write this stuff on Usenet (remember that?) and although this stuff is fairly tasteless, it's pretty funny. He used to have an archive which at some point has been taken offline. I cannot find his ramblings on the Usenet archives either, so I feel it almost a necessity to put his writings back online where they can live again.

Paul Ess was a amputee and eventually succumbed to complications from the stresses on the body. Furthermore, he had to live much of his adult life in professional care homes although he had much 'less polite' names for them (Tard Farm, Eternal Restroom, etc). Much of his ramblings are observations from his experiences in these homes; other things are ramblings from this past. And yes he was gay.

Paul Frederick Schnellbecher I think was his real name but he went by "Paul Ess" on Usenet. Enjoy or look away. I give you "The Eternal Rest Room"

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Today, my roomie in this convalescent hospital (we're both leg amputees) was yelling in his senility to any nurse who wandered by that he wanted a "physick". This is an old-fashioned word for laxitive. No one here except moi (who specializes in quaint and sometimes dangerous word constructs) knew what the hell he was talking about. And when no one could figure out what he meant, he would regale them with the terms "stupid" "sonofabitch" [male or female] and "cocksucker".

This man has smoked way too many cigarettes in his 91 years. It's almost hysterically funny to hear him wheeze out cusswords like a leaky bellows. He gets positively red in the face and has to breathe to force out each word. I think he has to wheeze twice to say "cocksucker" with any real volume... BTW, anyone who doesn't believe that smoking is dangerous, its damage cumulative, and that its effects can make your golden years a hell on earth needs to come here and listen to the smokers hack and cough. It's especially charming at three fucking a.m.

So the so-called "treatment" nurse came by with one of those charming little buttbombs (tm!!!) called a Fleet enema. The Buzzard, as we call him, was not amused. He doesn't particularly appreciate anyone checking him for anal virginity. I myself find a Fleet to be singularly unappealing, having been raised on The Ole Red Bag and Long Red Hose with Evil Black Hard Rubber Nozzle. There is nothing else quite like the sensation of your butt being invaded by a hard rubber nozzle coated with cold Vaseline.

I told her to be sure to stick a buttbomb (tm) in his ear as well; it might clean out his disposition, the old crank.

After he refused the Fleet, she deftly slipped him a suppository instead. Later on he managed to expel it and throw in on the floor with profuse cussing.

We'll have to turn him over to Ernestine. Ernestine's husband is in an adjoining room dying of bone cancer. She is deathly afraid he will succumb first to terminal constipation. How he could _possibly_ do this on a liquid diet is unclear to all of us. Nonetheless, the old boy gets a warm water enema every evening at seven o'clock. And to be sure he is clean as a whistle, he gets a Fleet at nine o'clock! All the nurses hate her because she is so demanding. No other inmate of this institution has any business needing anything during The Enema Hour. Hubby rarely says anything about these nightly assaults on his rectal mucosa. One time he did yell, "Wrong hole! Wrong hole!" --To which Ernestine retorted, "Why, you old fool, you only _got_ one hole back there...!"

And that's life for today from the Eternal Rest Home aka God's Waiting Room, someplace in the East Bay in Northern Californica.