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|From the nuthouse to the Nuthouse. Pt. 1 (standard:humor, 1119 words) [1/2] show all parts|
|Author: Greggo||Updated: Jun 20 2002||Views/Reads: 1734/1113||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Just a guy in a mental ward with his own ideas about what's wrong with the outside world. Just one part so far. Feedback welcome!|
From the Nuthouse to the Nuthouse. Pt. 1 Everyone everywhere, except for me, is nuts! Don't deny it: I know it's true! There's a man down the hall from my room. He sings in the shower, which wouldn't be too bad, except that he sings with a woman's voice. I'll hear Anne Murray songs during breakfast and then I get the Barbara Streisand at night. The man is almost sixty years old so you'd think maybe that his voice would change. I ran into him once, his name is Mr. Gothin but you must call him ‘sir', and he asked me what kind of music I listened to. And I told him too. In the morning I love to listen to Anne Murray's favorite songs o' the shower and near bedtime I am blessed with the live Barbara music hour! Mr. Gothin called me an ass and strode off. "Sir", I called after him, "maybe tonight you could open up the Janice Joplin vault or somethin' new", but that made him slam a door. Maybe I am an ass... Now Mr. Gothin refuses to look at me and I'm pretty sure that the volume has gone way up in his apartment. I guess I cannot expect too much from these kinds of people. They are somewhat primitive so that's why they're in this hospital. I, on the other hand, am so un-primitive that I'm better than everyone in here is, but that's why I'm in the Londonderry Institute for the Mentally Disabled, along with the rest of them. I tend to consider myself ‘mentally dislabelled' but my nurses don't think that's funny. They act prudish and smart but they're the same as anyone in here; they just don't know it yet! The reason I came here was so that I didn't have to pay alimony to my ex-wife. I declared myself too sophisticated to succumb to the simple monetary system that the ‘outside' people rely upon. So I quit my job. So she took me to court. I showed up to court with no clothes on as I also don't believe in the slightly more complex system of dress that the ‘outside' people have adapted. The judge, without sympathy, declared a psychological evaluation for myself. I suggested that he make my ex-wife undergo a similar evaluation, citing an unnatural lack of emotion, mainly in the bedroom. The judge found me in contempt and I couldn't have agreed with him more. Some doctor found me unfit for society. I found society unfit for that doctor however it seems that you have to go to university for years before anybody listens to what you have to say. There is a nurse here, we call he scary Mary, who makes me wear my clothes now. You wouldn't want to piss off scary Mary who weighs about 220 pounds. Her face looks like that of a menstruating pit-bull, which I imagine to be a very displeased-looking dog. Her hands, which must weigh about 20 pounds each, are tools that you don't want near you, especially when you're not wearing any clothes; you can't trust what those hands might grasp and crush with brute force: I don't take any chances. Other than scary Mary and her cult of white-wearing peons, there aren't any women on our floor, which makes for some interesting nightly noises coming from the other rooms down my hallway. Some of these crazies actually think they're in an all-boys school because they experiment with each other like you wouldn't believe; I think it's because they have an unlimited supply of morphine and can dissolve any traces of pain from their sexual escapades. On nights like those when the inmates are especially randy I can't be more pleased to hear Barbara's voice emanating between loud grunting noises of pleasure and pain. It often takes the nurses a few minutes to find the loud disgusting culprits but by then they usually have finished. You get used to these kinds of things when you're in this hospital, heck; if you didn't you would probably go crazy. I have a complete distrust of paper. That's what I told my doctor when he introduced himself three years ago. I meet with Doctor Darren once a day during the week. In one-hour sessions five times a week he tries to wander inside my mindset. Just because he has gone to school far longer than most people he figures that he has a right to dive into my own personal hiding place. The outside people give pieces of paper (they call them diplomas) that makes some people have more rights than others, not bad for a democracy in which everybody is equal. My doctor was given the right to pry the deepest memories from me and then go and discuss them amongst his pals, perhaps over a few drinks. And then, if Click here to read the rest of this story (28 more lines)
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