Chancres, Wens and Purulence
(Feb 09/06)
Sick people make me sick, all that coughing and soughing and bubonic inflammation. It’s all quite unseemly and intolerable. If it weren’t for an intractable Munchausen affliction and a black inquisitiveness, I’d surely stay clear of hospitals and walk-ins. All that skeletal bending, pustules and chancres, weeping suppurations and boils wen with purulence. But as I am required, by virtue of bad health and post-surgical follow-ups, to visit sanatoriums and doctor’s bedsides, I best shore up on my ill-temper and abhorrence of the sick and infirmed. This one sickly bastard in a wheelchair, a hose roiled in the abscess of his legs, white hairless spindles, had a hacking fit that almost rendered him unconscious, sad sickly bastard. Ether rags and janitorial abrasives, and a stiff bristled toiletry brush with a few teeth missing, for good measure, of course. A wire brush, the sort used for scrubbing the enamel clean off of soakingtubs and shit cisterns, black sebaceous footprints left by cretins and general miscreants, and those lacking in purgation and proper hygiene. Makes me sick with hatred and disgust for the unfortunate, ambulatory and syphilitic. True, they are in need of empathy and kind regards, but when it’s a thrice-weekly occurrence, I dare say they can all go fuck themselves. Soon, too soon perhaps, it will be I who am on the receiving end of such unwholesome and loathsome depurations. But until that time, to hell with them, every last bandy-legged one of ‘em. Fucking sickly bastards.
Sick people make me sick, all that coughing and soughing and bubonic inflammation. It’s all quite unseemly and intolerable. If it weren’t for an intractable Munchausen affliction and a black inquisitiveness, I’d surely stay clear of hospitals and walk-ins. All that skeletal bending, pustules and chancres, weeping suppurations and boils wen with purulence. But as I am required, by virtue of bad health and post-surgical follow-ups, to visit sanatoriums and doctor’s bedsides, I best shore up on my ill-temper and abhorrence of the sick and infirmed. This one sickly bastard in a wheelchair, a hose roiled in the abscess of his legs, white hairless spindles, had a hacking fit that almost rendered him unconscious, sad sickly bastard. Ether rags and janitorial abrasives, and a stiff bristled toiletry brush with a few teeth missing, for good measure, of course. A wire brush, the sort used for scrubbing the enamel clean off of soakingtubs and shit cisterns, black sebaceous footprints left by cretins and general miscreants, and those lacking in purgation and proper hygiene. Makes me sick with hatred and disgust for the unfortunate, ambulatory and syphilitic. True, they are in need of empathy and kind regards, but when it’s a thrice-weekly occurrence, I dare say they can all go fuck themselves. Soon, too soon perhaps, it will be I who am on the receiving end of such unwholesome and loathsome depurations. But until that time, to hell with them, every last bandy-legged one of ‘em. Fucking sickly bastards.
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