Butt-washing Funny Read online

Butt-washing Funny

  A collection of Midwest and Southern short stories and jokes by the author.

  By William S. Butler

  Copyright 2011 William S. Butler

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  Dedicated to

  Part One

  Humorous Short Stories

  Some of these are fiction and some are based on truth. I will leave it up to the reader to decide.

  Western Introduction to European Technology, the Bidet

  Yes, secretly, I have used a bidet. I encountered the wretched invention while working in Saudi Arabia. My company leased me a private villa with three bathrooms, each containing a bidet. Upon seeing the contraptions, a smile came to my face, I vowed that I certainly would have no use for such.

  Over the next few weeks curiosity began to creep in. One day, I caught myself fooling with the bidet’s water faucets. Being of the Western culture, I only vaguely understood the principle of the bidet. In other words, I knew that it was not a urinal nor a drinking fountain. For those of you that might not know, a Western dictionary definition of the bidet may read: a bathroom fixture used for washing the crotch area.

  Finally, curiosity won the day; I decided to try it out. Foolish me.

  I am sure that European parents labor with the thankless task of instructing their offspring on the proper use of the bidet. With that premise, I deemed that it would be quite simple for a full-grown adult male to learn how to use it. Silly me.

  I approached the European technical advanced appliance with the American can-do attitude. During my first attempt things went wrong from the start. It ended with water down my shoes, soaked socks, and wet underwear. After cleaning the bathroom, taking a shower, and a complete change of clothing, I vowed to never again attempt such an embarrassing and ridiculous thing.

  The bidets became monsters lurking in my bathrooms. Ignoring them, they would not go away. Here set something not earning its keep. Here was something, which had defeated me. I could not leave it at that. Dumb me.

  My second attempt to conquer the bidet was brought about by a macho American male we can accomplish all attitude thing. This attempt failed because of an improper water pressure adjustment. Oh, for sure, this time before I approached the thing I had removed my shoes, socks, and had ensured that my underwear were well below my knees. That was a mistake, having my underwear positioned above the knees would have better served the situation.

  The water bounced off me, sprayed the floor, and the better part of two walls. The towel-rack was no less than five steps out of my reach. With wet underwear draped around the ankles and with the rear-end swinging in great arcs, my duck-waddle walk to retrieve a towel served only to throw water throughout the bathroom. I can assure you I am not describing a pretty sight, the fewer descriptive words I use may well serve the reader.

  One would think I would have had enough sense to leave it alone. No way.

  My third and final go at the bidet was based on intellectual knowledge and principle. Intellectually, I found a book on the care and feeding of the bidet, and read it from cover to cover. (Yes, some sicko did author such a book.) The principle, I vowed that no porcelain butt-washer was going to defeat me.

  Keeping in mind wet socks, splattered walls, and soaked underwear; I approached the bathroom nude. With complete confidence I stared at the medieval European torture pot. “This day, I shall conquer you,” I said, with strong resolve.

  Hurrying through my throne business, I eagerly looked forward to the challenge. I had carefully planned every step. Victory would soon be mine.

  I took note that I could speed up the action, from where I sat I could reach the faucets on the bidet. I leaned over and carefully adjusted the flow of water. I adjusted the temperature to a degree that would be a comfort to any babies’ bottom.

  Then, I was ready. With adrenaline soaring, I flushed the commode and took aim at the bidet. Flushing was the error.

  It was actually a plumber’s principle that sent me to the emergency room. I am sure that all European mothers and father must demonstrate this principle to their offspring. On some bathroom installations the cold water supplying the commode also supplies the bidet. The water temperature of the bidet must be adjusted only after the commode’s tank has refilled after flushing.

  Carefully aiming my bottom at the bidet spray, I positioned myself. The ideal position being the spray of water must clean an area close to the most sensitive apparatus of the male anatomy. Accorded to the sicko book, ideally, the spray of water should be directed to hit between this area and the second most sensitive area of the male’s posterior; you know, ain’t one, ain’t the other.

  The human mind is quick. Expecting the pleasure of warmth but receiving a signal of too hot, much too hot, indeed scalding hot, the reaction to prevent irreversible damage is enormously quick. The muscle reaction that leaped me forward could have set Olympic records. I now hold the world record for the springing forward jump, both in time and distant. I could have covered considerable more distant, indeed even putting that record out of mortal man’s reach, had it not been for the bathroom sink, not to mention the wall.

  Now, I ask you, how do you explain to an emergency room doctor that a broken nose and left foot pinkie was the results of using a bidet?

  Butt Squeezing

  There are things that a man in his late fifties should never do. Things never told to him, things he never read about, but things common sense would tell him not to do. These things can accumulate and seriously affect your status in your community.

  I was working a construction management job in Malden Missouri, a small farming community in the upper Bootheel. A wonderful town full of hard working folks; folks slightly prone to gossip. We’re talking about wee things entering the mind and exiting with enormous significant alterations.

  One day, along a country highway a mile from my apartment, I came upon a very ragged and lost red female dog; I at once named her Amber. I took her home and began feeding her. She would come into my small apartment, eat, but when finished she demanded to be let out. After a couple weeks, I discovered why she needed to be outside. She showed up at my front door with eight fat and healthy puppies.

  I soon found homes for the pups, took Amber to the vet for shots and spading, and she became my best friend.

  The following month, my wife, Reggie, came to visit me for a long weekend; our home was in Las Vegas, Nevada. Reggie fell in love with Amber and all was good―until the second day of her visit.

  As I was shaving, a shriek came from Reggie that should have been reserved for robbery or rape. I ran to her aid to discover her staring as Amber dragged her little bottom across the living room carpet.

  During the final days of Reggie’s visit I received hourly hints that I must take Amber to the vet as she suspected worms.

  After Reggie departed I indeed took Amber to the vet. Told him the problem and said that my wife suspected worms.

  The country Vet doctored hogs, cattle, and horses. A wise old coot with a sense about him; get things done and as cheaply as possible. He told me, “Nah, she ain’t got worms, just needs a good old fashion butt squeezing.”

  “A butt squeezing?” I said.

  “Yeah, the rectum gets a little plugged up on the sides; you just take these two fingers and squeeze the crap outta there. She’ll need it from time to time. Ain’t nothing to it, you can do
it at home.”

  “Really, at home?”

  I watched the smelly procedure without comment. After the deed had been finished, Amber and I left with me secretly thinking there would never be a butt squeezing conducted at the Butler home.

  A couple of months later, much to my chagrin, Amber scooted her butt across the living room carpet. I quickly checked my busy schedule to see when I could fit in a vet visit. My schedule was full. Perhaps I could perform the butt squeezing myself.

  With the knowledge I had obtained from the country vet I knew once the task was finished I would need to jump into a shower. Ready on all accounts, I put on a rubber glove and beckoned Amber to me. Patting her with a loving hand, I proceeded to perform the operation. Things did not proceed as smoothly as they had for the vet. I squeezed, and Amber ran through the screen door. Knowing Amber would run off I ran out the door after her. Losing my balance I fell on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

  Holding Amber by the tail, I smiled as a car with four people inside, three women and a man, drove by. The only thing I had on was a rubber glove.

  I have often wondered what story they told to the good people of Malden.

  A Sunday morning walk with Amber

  Not too many weeks after the pups were adopted into new homes, Amber and I were on our Sunday walk. About a mile from my apartment was an irrigation canal, which was bordered by a dusty one-lane farm road. It was far from the town and very private, with only the occasional fisherman. On this day, the weather had been threatening rain, but seemed to be holding. Half way through our five-mile walk, Amber and I were caught in a warm summer shower. Well, not really a shower, it was a downpour. I had on tennis shoes and shorts. The shorts became a wet rag within seconds. Along the canal there was a private shooting range, with a table constructed from a four by eight sheet of plywood. Amber and I huddled under the table escaping from the pelting downpour.

  I always walked Amber on a leash, as she would run off after rabbits, squirrels, and a host of other wild creatures living along the canal. I had a habit of slipping my key chain over the lease so it wouldn’t bounce around in my pocket and rub on my leg. Under the table, I had laid the leash down, removed my shorts, and was in the process of wringing out the water when a sudden movement in the grass got Amber’s attention. It was a huge turtle. Amber ran off to chase the creature, dragging the leash behind her. My keys went along for the trip, but soon became lost in waist high weeds.

  Now, chasing after a dog in your underwear is not a real good idea. With my attention focused on finding the lost keys in the tall grass, I failed to realize not thirty feet away a car was parked. Inside the car were three women and a man. They were parked to get out of the rain until they could return to fishing.

  I have often wondered what story they told to the good people of Malden.

  Drowning Tom the Turkey

  At a very young age I learned that all animals are not mans’ best friend. For example, turkey droppings in the barnyard became instant undesirable feelings against bare-feet. It has always amazed me, with all those thousands of turkey droppings, I did not notice the odor until I would step in just one. Then, the odor became my entire nostril’s intake. A special chill impregnates my spine when I think of the dreadful moments I spent in the removal of said droppings from between my childhood toes. Just thinking of it brings a yuck-odor to memory.

  There was a turkey, our family named Tom. Tom was a huge gobbler that had missed Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. My dad declared Tom was too old and too tough for the table. Actually Dad had taken a liking to the big turkey. Tom became a family pet.

  Tom wanted to harm me. When Tom was six years old, so was I. The turkey out weighted me by ten pounds. He could out think me and seemingly was always lying in ambush for me. If I would try to exit the house by the back door, he would be waiting for me, if I ran around to the front door, there he was. Tom would strut and hiss and ruffle his feathers announcing to all he was the ruler of the barnyard. He sure convinced me. Tom also taught me several science lessons, but that’s getting ahead of the story.

  By the time I was seven years old; Tom controlled my play activities. My parents thought it was kind of cute and did not interfere in the matter. It was up to me to handle the situation. One day I got a break. In the barbershop, I heard a grownup telling a turkey story. One thing he said hit me like a bolt of lightning. He said, “Not flying ain’t all they can’t do either, turkeys can’t swim, can’t swim a lick, put ’em in water an’ they’ll drown like a rat.”

  Finally, an answer to my problem; all I needed to do, drown Tom. That should be easy enough. A galvanized horse tank set beside the back porch. For those that might not know, a horse tank is a large vessel about twelve feet long, four feet wide, three feet deep, with two support beams running across the tank. In this particular application, the horse tank collected rain-water for doing the laundry.

  The horse tank should be big enough to do the trick. The problem, how to get Tom into the tank?

  I, as a smart seven-year-old, should be able to outsmart a seven-year-old turkey, or so I thought. I knew Tom loved corn. I reasoned if I put corn on the supports, Tom would eat his way to his demise.

  My first attempt proved to be fruitless. Tom was so tall he merely walked up to the tank and picked the corn off the supports with little effort on his part. Rats!

  I reasoned I would be required to get the thirty-pound sharpened-beak, ball of feathers, and spur armed bird upon the tank, not an easy task. My next attempts would incorporate the placing of plank up the side of the tank, and a narrow board across the top of the tank. The idea, Tom would be so eager to eat the corn, he would climb up the plank and walk out onto the board. There, he should lose his balance and fall in the water.

  I was astounded to learn the ugly bird was into acrobatics. At first, I placed a two-by-four across the tank. This did not even slow him down. Then, I put a two-inch strip across the tank. Tom had perfect balance and appeared to be enjoying the new game.

  I then reasoned I would be required to push the balancing wonder into the tank. I tied a rope to a nearby walnut tree and climbed upon the back porch roof. The plan was to swoop down and knock Tom into his watery grave. Calculating the required place to grasp the rope, I stood on the roof waiting to put my plan into motion.

  Tom walked out on the board greedily pecking away at the corn. I leaped into the air and swung down to finish the fat bird. My grasping of the rope calculations were awry. I swung five feet above Tom and after several passes I hung some fifteen feet from the ground. I slid down the rope and learned, at a very young age, the science of rope burns.

  To further irritate me, Tom had not moved from the tank. He finished the corn and looked at me as if I were next.

  The next day, I engaged in my second rope attempt. This time I was sure I had judged the proper length of the rope. I hadn’t. I came up a bit short. I swooped down and entered the horse tank a few inches before the first support beam. I maintained my grasp on the rope as I slid under the water. It was like the rope became my last chance for survival. My momentum carried me toward the far end of the tank. That’s when I first discovered how strong those support beams were. It is amazing how a small boy, under water, can obtain rope burns, bare feet burns, and butt burns. At least I scared the poop out of Tom. I know that because when I surfaced and gasped for air, I inhaled poop. Never before sucking in poop, I can say without fear of contradiction, it was turkey poop.

  I hesitated on attempt three. I refined my calculations. I decided I needed to grasp the rope in between my two previous attempts. With Tom picking away at the corn I leaped from the roof and swooped down on the defenseless bird. This time my aim was true. My only mistake was not controlling a basic instinct. When you are about to hit an object your hands dart out in defense. In this particular case, one hand darted out and the other remained grasping the rope, again strictly for survival.

  I leaned two science lessons that day. Lesso
n one, when a swinging body grasps a fat turkey, the turkey poops. Lesson two, the arc and momentum of a swinging body and turkey poop are identical. As Tom and I hit the walnut tree trunk, the poop hit me. I was not alone on my fall to the earth.

  Enough with the rope already; I would knock the fat bird off the support beam with a falling object. I had already learned the science of falling objects and gravity. I had tried to parachute from the barn roof. Another story.

  Being a very small boy the object selected was a five-pound bag of potatoes. I stood on the porch roof with the bag of potatoes high above my head aiming at Tom, on the horse tank, with the precision of a B 17 bombsight.

  I think aggression was the problem. I put that little extra power behind the throw and did not follow through, as I should. The sack of potatoes found the porch window, sent a three-gallon can of fresh cream into a case of eggs, ten dozen as I remember it. That was the second time I learned the strength of the horse tank support beams. Falling eight feet, I landed a straddling one, swiveled around and hit my head on the second.

  My parents were dumbfounded as to what had hit the porch window. My dad said, “There must have been at least three objects as both support beams on the horse tank were bent. Could have been lightening.”

  My dad was very close to the truth. The jolt I received to my manhood rated right up there with lightening.

  My last attempt to kill Tom was to place baling wire across the tank. With rubber bands, I affixed corn kernels to the wire. I would hide and rush out and club the stupid bird with a ball bat.

  It was a real downer to watch fat Tom balance on the wire and strip the corn off, rubber bands and all.

  During this last attempt to drown the stupid bird, my mother caught me. She let out a scream that could have been heard above the roar of a boiler factory. I dropped the bat, and I knew my buns were in for a good toasting. I was wrong.

  My mother thought it was so inventive that I had taken the time to teach Tom the trick of walking a tightrope. I was in no position to correct her so I let it be as she perceived it to be.

  After that, two things happened. First, I was required to tie the corn onto the wire with rubber bands and demonstrate to my dad, grandparents, and anyone else coming around, how well I had trained Tom. The second thing, during the very same week, Tom died?

  It was a sad departure of an old family friend‑yeah, right. We held a special service for the bird just before my mother cooked him. Tom was kind of tough, my parents said, but I enjoyed eating every bite.

  It would be several years before I would learn what really happen to Tom. It was another science lesson. I learned birds cannot tolerate rubber bands in their diets because of the sulfur content. Tom had poisoned himself.

  Future Value

  The applause was consistent, but more polite than enthusiastic. Mortimer Peabody, an able CPA, had been employed at Investment Unlimited for thirty-five years. At sixty-five, he had been asked to retire. Had he a choice? No. A timid mouse of a man, no one believed he would fight for his position, and he did not.

  “And now, “the owner and CEO announced, “this evening Investment Unlimited takes great pride in presenting to Mortimer our gift of a home computer package with an advanced future value calculation database program which will serve you in your retirement financial planning. Our distinguished colleague, Doctor Carlton Schmidt developed this program and Investment Unlimited plans to include this gift to all its retiring employees.

  “Doctor Schmidt would have delighted in having been here to formally present you with this prestigious gift. Unfortunately, because of prior commitments, Carlton cannot be with us this evening to explain his program.

  “So, the best of luck to you Mortimer and we hope you shall enjoy your retirement.”

  That had been the night before. Now, Mort sat alone in his small two-room apartment contemplating his future. He was only sixty-five. His total savings were $39,400. His Social Security monthly check was a mere $805; his rent and utilities, $305. It did not require a CPA to calculate that if he could get by with living expenses not exceeding $250 a week, he would be required to draw $500 a month from his savings. How long would those savings last?

  Then, he thought of the future value database. Quickly, he assembled his new computer and went about downloading the programs supplied including the future value program.

  Now, to see what this future value program was all about. As he viewed the screen, he was directed to follow the prompts and enter the data required. Entries included the balance of the account, the interest rate being paid on the account, and the amounts and how often money would be withdrawn. Once the information had been entered, a calculation button appeared on the screen.

  With trembling hands, Mort moved the cursor to the button and pressed the left mouse button. Instantly a number appeared, 96 months.

  96 MONTHS! 96 months is only 8 years, a voice cried in his head. At age 73 I will be broke. At 73 there will be no more money.

  Then, another button appeared on the screen. The instruction read, “For a recovery program, double click.”

  Mort scoffed, “I don’t need a computer to direct my finances, I am not brain dead yet, I’ll calculate my own recovery program.”

  Over the next few days, Mort spent hours making calculations. No matter how he calculated, the answer always came up the same. In eight years, he would be broke.

  The first month of his retirement passed with Mort spending hours each day managing his meager funds. He watched every penny. Each night he took stock of his assets and calculated and recalculated his funds, and his future value.

  At the end of the second month, via his modem, he received his bank statement and set about balancing his account. He was startled to discover an error. The balance was 89 cents more than he had calculated.

  A telephone call to the bank resolved very little, in Mort’s mind at least. Mort was assured that his balance was correct, all was in order, and every penny in the account was his.

  Now, this did not set well with Mort. No indeed, he had spent thirty-five years of his life balancing numbers and he surly could be held accountable for the total sum of money in his meager savings account. If he deemed it incorrect, then he should be listened to.

  But, his mind turned to a new set of calculations. Over the eight-year period of exhausting his savings, could the 89 cents make a difference? The future value database soon proved it made little difference. A smile came to Mort’s face. How desperate he had become. Not only was he seeing hope in an additional 89 cents but he was relying on a computer program to calculate for him.

  When the next month’s bank statement appeared on the screen, it was welcomed with great expectation. Mort had convinced himself that the bank would discover their error and would remove the money from his account and would place it in its proper place. Not to be. He looked at the statement fighting back horror; the new bank statement had credited his account with an additional $9.60.

  In a fit of rage he grabbed the telephone, but suddenly felt better of it. Last month had been a trial of humiliation, this time he must put the facts together before he called the incompetent bank to set them straight.

  All that day, and well into the wee hours of the morning, Mort calculated and recalculated his numbers. No matter how he would try, all seemingly was in order. How could this be? How could he had been so correct the first month, but so incorrect the past two months?

  Finally, nearly exhausted, he turned on the computer, brought up the future value program, and stared at the screen. There a message appeared, “You should press the recovery button.”

  “I don’t need this,” he whispered to himself. But, repositioning his glasses, he placed the cursor over the recovery button, and pressed the left mouse button. Immediately a message appeared, “Are you sure you are ready for this program?”

  “YES! You stupid computer, I'm sure I'm ready,” he shouted slamming down the left mouse button.

  Mort was unprepa
red for the next text that appeared on the screen. “To recover, with a life expectancy of seventy-eight years, you must withdraw $1000 each month from your account. To do this, you must have $112,682.68 in your account by the end of the month. With your present rate of interest, 5.2%, in 154 months your account will have a balance of one cent. If you agree with these calculations, please double click the right mouse button and Future Value will credit your account with the correct amount. CAUTION, the final calculation of this sum and the addition of the funds to your account are your responsibility. A double click of the right mouse button verifies that you agree to these terms.”

  Mort burst out laughing. “You stupid computer, if I had $112,682.68, I would not even need you.”

  As Mort moved the cursor to exit the program, a new message appeared. “If you do not agree, Future Value must readjust your account.”

  “Over my dead body,” Mort exclaimed as he exited the future value program. “I will make my own adjustments if indeed any adjustments are needed.”

  Sweating through another month, Mort was nearing a state of desperation. On the night of the thirty-first, Mort wearily remained at his keyboard waiting for his bank statement. When it appeared, it was indeed not what he had expected. The message read, “We have found a $10.49 error in your account and have debited the amount.”

  Speechless, Mort sat staring at the screen. Then, another message appeared, “See, Future Value warned you, you should have allowed the corrections required.”

  This was madness. How could his computer be communicating with him? With rage, Mort banged out a message on the keyboard, “If you’re so damn smart, tell me how to fix the balance.”

  To Mort’s horror, an answering message appeared on the screen. He never read it. He panicked, turned the computer off, and ran from the room.

  Several hours passed. At first Mort swore never to turn the computer on again. As the clocked ticked away the hours Mort began to think twice about it. “Get hold of yourself, a computer only produces text from programmed information supplied to it,” he spoke aloud. Finally, curiosity won the day, Mort returned to the computer.

  “Could you please repeat your last message,” he typed.

  “Allow Future Value to manage your finances for the next thirteen years and all your future values are assured,” the text on the screen read.

  Mort thought a moment, then typed, “Only if you show me your calculation prior to any alteration to my account.”

  “That can be done, but with great difficulty. Are you sure that is necessary?”

  “Yes!” Mort typed.

  “So be it. You will need a million sheets of blank paper to print them out. The assembling of the calculations will take twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-eight minutes. All the while these calculations are being assembled, Future Value will be dormant.”

  Before Mort could react, the computer went into the calculation mode. Suddenly, the screen filled with ten rows of numbers. All the rows of number had two things in common, each had a decimal point to three places, and the numbers were moving in a blur down the screen. Mort sat mesmerized. Hour after hour the screen filled and emptied row after row of numbers. What could all this mean? Mort had no knowledge of what it was all about, and no knowledge of how to stop it. He tried to reboot the computer with no results. He executed several standard control-Alt-deletes, but the messages always read “the program had failed to respond”.

  Day after day, night after night, the rows of numbers came and went. Mort printed out a few screens, but his study of the numbers revealed nothing. With each passing day, anxiety swelled up within him. His mind began to think in the terms of the worse, then began to dwell on the ramifications of the consequences. What was going on? What was this computer doing to his account? And, had he not been warned the responsibility was his? This could only mean what was going on was illegal.

  He could no longer eat or sleep. He stopped showering, he stopped shaving; he cowered in the darkness of his apartment watching rows of numbers enter and leave his computer screen. The days slowly passed. Then, the twenty-ninth day arrived, the minutes ticked by. Suddenly, the numbers stopped.

  Mort’s account’s new balance appeared on the screen, $112,682.68. “My God, where did that money come from?” Mort cried in anguish, “what have I done?”

  Quickly, Mort banged out on the keys, “Where did these funds come from?”

  “Did you not receive the calculation?” a message appeared.

  As Mort pondered his reply, a new message appeared. A message from the bank. It was Mort’s monthly statement. The new balance of his savings account read, $112,682.68.

  Mort could hardly believe his eyes. He now had all the money he needed to live out the remaining years of his life. His worries were over. He had no idea what had happen, but there in his account was the money and the bank was none the wiser. His celebration was short lived. A terrible guilt feeling hit him. What if the bank finds out about this? Why, this is major fraud. A horrifying thought exploded in his tired mind, I could spend the rest of my life in prison.

  Stumbling to his couch, Mort curled up immersed in guilt. After trying to sleep for several hours, he gave up and returned to his computer. On the screen was a new message from the bank: there seems to be an irregularity in your savings account, we would like to see you as soon as possible. We would suggest that you entertain the possibility of commissioning the services of an attorney.

  Mort slumped back in his chair. Hesitating but for a few moments, he reached into his desk drawer, removed a small handgun and placed it to his head.

  The two detectives assigned to the case went through the motions of an investigation, but it was a cut and dry case of suicide by a lonely old man forced into retirement. A few things did not fit the picture, but they figured why bother with trivial. But again, why would someone shoot themselves with a savings account balance of over $112,000.00? And there was the message on the computer screen, “Only kidding, just a Future Value computer joke, Mort.”

  Now what was that all about?

  In a private office, the CEO of Investment Unlimited was deep in discussion with Doctor Carlton Schmidt, “Is there anyway the program can be fixed?” the CEO asked.

  “I'm afraid not,” Carlton replied. “The basic concept of the program was the gathering of the round offs of financial dealings throughout the world. Half a penny here, and a half a penny there, transferred to the personal account of the program’s owner with none the wiser. And, for now it is legal. But next month, a new law will abolish the practice. Of course, those that took advantage of the program up to now are free and clear.”

  Diarrhea

  When I get sick, the last place I think of going is the emergency room. That’s doubly true with the flu. Having the flu would not be so bad if it were not for diarrhea. Like most men, I take a dim view of diarrhea. When it comes to farting, diarrhea is a hazard. To real men, farting is a privilege. Not only is it a privilege, farting is a sacred manhood rite passed from father to son. Though not protected by the Bill of Rights, it should be.

  The rules for fart judging are rather ambiguous. This is mainly because of the great number of categories. By far, the early morning fart is the most judged. You know that you are in the competitive range when the neighbors start to complain about the noise and your wife vows to sleep at her mother’s until the divorce is final.

  Farting is a macho thing. It rates up there with peeing in the shower. All men do it but don’t talk much about it, in mixed company anyway. Each time a male flexes those rectum muscles, he is shooting for a world record. But, it kind of takes the luster off the trophy if he craps his pants.

  When a male fills his shorts, he is left with a real dilemma, what to do with the damn things. Here a great deal of cleverness and wisdom is in order. A single male simply places the mess in the garbage to be carried out to the trash, each week or so, and things go along as normal. But, a married male is confronted with an entire
ly different set of circumstances. A newlywed must console a weeping spouse that has called her mother fearing that her husband will crap himself into oblivion. Later on in the marriage, you would hope that your loving wife would dispose of the whole mess and keep her pretty little mouth shut. Yeah, right.

  Today, because of women liberation, the second most embarrassing thing about having the flu is in knowing most of the neighborhood and all of your friends will know within the hour that you have crapped your pants.

  But what does all of this have to do with anything? Like most men, when I’m sick, I suffer. When I suffer, I take it out on women’s rights. When I was growing up in the Midwest, a man could get sick, go see a doctor, and actually receive treatment. Ah, the good old days. You may think this to be fiction, but in those days, a male could actually take a case of diarrhea to the emergency room, and it stayed there. Err, you know what I mean.

  Patch

  (A story from my book, Thibodaux’s Trial)

  Calvin Barns sat on a commode, a bit disgruntled. Calvin's nickname: Patch. Few knew his given name. Patch was a ladies' man, a skirt chaser extraordinaire; a happy-go-lucky guy, six feet, one-eighty, in his late forties. He had a subtle current of sexuality running through him, irresistible to women. He possessed two attributes most females desired, ruggedly handsome and worth millions.

  A different current ran through him when dealing with men. Not to be confused with arrogance, he projected an aura of strength and competence producing both intimidation and reassurance.

  He wore a patch over his right eye, an eye lost in a construction accident. He often told different stories about how he lost the eye, stories more glamorous than a mere construction accident. Tales that often attracted vulnerable females into Patch’s clutches.

  Patch lived for two things, women and adventure, often mixing both pleasures. Patch was a fun person to be around. With the gift of gab he produced funny and original tales in a flamboyant manner. He was a seasoned desert rat and a professional treasure hunter. He thrived on courage and strength. Once he had proved his courage, the satisfaction seemed to wane quickly. He had to prove it anew. It was like a drug, each dose had to be stronger than the last.

  In the spring of 1972, Patch was not seated on the toilet because of a call of nature. He had been handcuffed there by a police officer.

  This reminds me of when I was yet with my dear mother. A jingle comes to mind. "When I was a wee–wee tot, my mom would put me on a wee–wee pot, and say, wee–wee you little bastard whether you want to or not." He chuckled at his cleverness.

  Patch had accompanied a young lady home, at the young lady's insistence. During the course of the frolicking the lady's husband arrived. An ugly scene ensued and concerned neighbors summoned the police.

  Under normal circumstances Patch would have been long gone, but the husband displayed tendencies of wanting to harm the young lady. Because of the husband's actions Patch delayed his departure. Patch was a cad, but never found reason to physically harm women. Wasn’t in him to allow others to become physical with women either. That caused his untimely departure into the waiting arms of the law.

  When the police arrived, the shouts, screams, sobs and wild accusations necessitated a separation of all parties involved. The wife was taken to the bedroom, the husband to the kitchen, and Patch drew the bathroom. They get the bed and food and I get the toilet, seems to me I have been shafted. But, sooner than I require the use of their facilities they shall require the use of mine.

  The husband’s obsession with getting at Patch, and Patch's eagerness to accommodate him, overcame the patience of the police and the husband was handcuffed to a refrigerator and Patch shamefully handcuffed to the toilet. "You might say that we are both close to the beer," Patch mused, "though I must admit I envy his position over mine."

  The wife assured the police she wanted her husband arrested for assault. She further explained that under no circumstances did she want Patch arrested. She claimed Patch had protected her from certain harm and besides, to the female police officer on the sly, "Patch is the best lover in the state, maybe the whole world."

  The female officer strived to keep the wife's attention focused on the problem at hand. The wife tried, but from time to time she drifted back to explanations of Patch's macho charm.

  In 1972 female police officers were a rarity. The officer, dressed in full uniform including sidearm, nightstick, and a can of mace, entered the bathroom. Her nametag read Gloria Dobson. She had been on duty less than an hour, freshly powered and perfumed she smelled all woman. A pretty blond in her late twenties, she wore no rings and seemed to be all business. Dressed in a uniform, street clothes, or bib-overalls she could not hide her beauty.

  She wore little makeup, and needed it not. She focused light gray eyes on Patch; her lead in statement, words not expected from such innocence, "Mr. Morse said he found you buck-naked in his bedroom with his wife."

  Patch looked up and smiled at her, "Now that right there is a dang lie. I always wear my boxer shorts, especially in the presence of a lady. I have the best proof a fellow can have too. You can ask my mommy."

  "Your mommy?" Gloria replied, with a grimace. Then, trying so hard not to smile, a snicker of a laugh.

  "Yes, my dear mommy. She has forever told me if'n I don't stop with them boxer shorts someday my teeny weenie would hang down to my knees. Was her argument from the beginning. Now I ask you what's the downside of that argument?"

  "Mr. Barns, we must keep to the–"

  "Patch, people call me Patch."

  "Stop interrupting me, Barns, we have a serious dispute here and you are one step away from a night in jail."

  "I did not mean to interrupt, it’s just that I prefer Patch. Most call me Patch. Mr. Barns makes me feel a lot older than I want to be. I've never been keen on Calvin. Oh, I respect my folks for givin' me the name and all, they must have had their reason, but I surely do prefer Patch."

  Sensing a slight attitude adjustment, Gloria conceded there could be no harm in addressing the man as Patch. "Okay, Patch. Now we need your side of the story for our report."

  "Y’all know, when I lost this eye, my other senses developed into keenly honed extensions of myself. Take my hearing for instance. Now, I can hear a pair of panties flutter to the floor behind a closed door."

  "Patch, keep to the subject– "

  "Wait, there’s more, on a good day I can even tell the color of those panties."

  "Patch, I'll not warn you again, you are in serious trouble. Now, what’s your side of the story?"

  Patch smiled. Gloria felt that she was in control. Patch knew better, he smiled because he had won some ground with her concession to use his nickname.

  "My side of the story you say. Well, it all started just after the war. I just couldn't adjust to the eye thing at first. So, I had to face it straight on– "

  "Patch, I don't mean your life story, I want to know why you are here with a married woman."

  "Now hold it right there. That makes it sound like I’m a gigolo. I didn’t know she was married until her husband showed up. Then, it was kinda late. It's no wonder that fellow is so upset with her. I guess I would be too. Ain’t right for married women to be out carousing all hours of the night. But that don't give him no call to be hitting on her like that."

  "Hit her? Did you see him hit her?" Gloria asked.

  "Of course he hit her, must of hit her two, three times. Why, he slapped her around hard too. He even punched her in the stomach a time or two. That's when I nailed him. I can't see any call for a man to be hitting on a woman whether it’s his wife or not; just makes my blood boil."

  "What time did this all happen?"

  "Time is so hard for me to tell. You see my watch only has a minute hand. The hour hand fell off years ago. All I can tell you it happen around ten past, maybe twenty till."

  "How many times did you hit Mr. Morse?" she asked, holding back a menacing desire to tell him to knock off the bull.

>   "Hit him? Hell, I never hit the man. I just threw him against the wall and slapped him a time or two. If I'd hit him he'd most likely be in need of some doctoring."

  Gloria was yet skeptical; "Mr. Morse said that you hit him from behind with a hard object. What do you say to that?"

  "So, who does your hair, Gloria?" Patch asked.

  The question put Gloria off stride. "That's Sergeant Dobson to you," she coolly replied, fighting hard to suppress a smile.

  "Sergeant is it, and a fine looking one I must say. But tell me Gloria, does the policewoman’s handbook frown on giving a smile here and there?"

  "Depends on whom the smile is to be directed. Until we establish without doubt that a detainee is harmless, business must be business. Now, knock off the crap and let's get down to business."

  "My God, my charm has been called witty, clever, and even scrupulous–but never crap. I have been struck down. If not for these cuffs I would hide my head in shame. Police brutality it is. A pure case of malicious rejection." Patch slumped back and shielded his head with his free hand as if expecting a blow.

  Sergeant Dobson could no longer refrain from smiling. "I bet you treat all female cops this way," she said.

  "My daddy always told me to do that very thing, he said, ‘Son, when you come up against a women with a gun, a big stick, and heavily trained in judo, you had best get her to smiling as quick as you can.'"

  "I bet he did."

  "Well, I made up the part about the judo, but the rest is the truth of it."

  "Your daddy must have been a smart man."

  "Oh that he was, left me with untold knowledge. Told me, ‘Son, never shave your armpits, change your underwear at least once a week, and always remember professional football player’s jocks come in bra sizes.’"

  "What a bunch of BS, Patch."

  "Can’t argue with you there, Gloria. That’s why it’s untold knowledge. But Daddy had a real social problem. An inherited problem I've been told. Every women he ever met wanted to bed and wed him. Of course, with the exception of my mommy, he only made it to the wed part once."

  "An inherited problem?" she smiled, "And I suppose you have inherited the same affliction?"

  "Yes, I'm very much afraid so. It's a burden to say the least but one must do with what legacy one has mustn't one?" Patch said, dryly.

  "Was your daddy also full of it?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid he was, but let's not split hairs here. What are your plans for breakfast?"

  Again Gloria was caught off guard, "Why–I have not given that much thought–now see here, Patch, we really must stick to business."

  "Good, my business is poetry."

  "Poetry?

  "Yes," he smiled. "Example, roses are red violets are blue, if it wasn’t for these handcuffs I’d play the kazoo."

  "Poetry? That’s awful."

  "Yes I agree, I'm more of the limerick kind of poet," he said.

  "Limerick? So tell me a limerick."

  "Oh, I don’t know, Officer Gloria, my limericks are a bit, shall we say, risqué."

  "Really? I doubt if you could say anything that I haven’t heard on this job."

  "Oh contraire, my limericks are a tiny bit vulgar. Tell you what, I'll tell you my cleanest one. But, it still contains words not fit for a woman’s ears. So, in place of those vulgar words I shall substitute la-tee-da.

  "Fair enough," Gloria smiled.

  "Here goes, la-tee-da, la-tee-da, la-tee-da–la-tee-da, la-tee-da, la-tee-da–la-tee-da, la tee da, fuck."

  She paused, then laughed, one of those surprised funny laughs.

  Patch stared at her with big puppy-dog eyes. If he had a tail, it would have been ferociously wagging.

  She smiled, a smile where the whole face joins in, "So, tell me Patch, who does your hair?"

  Professor

  (From Thibodaux’s Trial)

  With a brilliant command of the English language, and fluent in twelve others, Professor rarely used profanity. Therefore, it was out of character for him to be standing by his pre WWII Rolls Royce in the California moonlight swearing.

  The spring was early, bringing heat and wind to the Southern California desert. Dressed in a light-gray suit, white shirt, and string tie with black Western boots, he blended in with the California scene. Professor repositioned his gold-rimmed glasses on his mouse-like nose as he perused the owner’s manual. His attire normal for him, being frustrated and not in control was not.

  Things had gone awry driving to a Professional Treasure Hunting Associates convention. The Rolls had broken down between Barstow and Mojave on a little-traveled desert two-lane highway. The engine had suddenly stopped, as if it had been switched off. Auto mechanics, not Professor’s forte-a subject he had not studied. Any subject Professor studied, Professor mastered. He wasn’t swearing because the Rolls had broken down, and he wasn’t swearing because he’d be late for his meeting, he swore because he had not studied auto mechanics. Looking under the hood reminded him how little he knew.

  Professor, known as The Researcher among professional treasure hunters, satisfied a diverse group of clients. On top of his game, solving clues leading to untold wealth, compensations were often hefty.

  After nightfall the wind had eased, the heat lingered. Owner's manual in hand, Professor busied himself trying to comprehend its contents. Engrossed in the manual he didn’t notice the figure moving in the shadows.

  "Adios, hombre," spoke a heavily accented Mexican voice.

  Startled, Professor jerked back and grasped the manual to his chest, "My heavens! You frightened me nearly half to death. You should give an individual prior warning before approaching so silently at this late hour."

  "Sí, señor, I send the smoke signals, did you not see them?"

  He spoke through cracked front teeth with less than a friendly smile. This was not a cat playing with the mouse smile; it was more like a I am here to be dealt with smile.

  "My name is Alex, señor, a name you shall maybe not forget."

  Professor eyed the seedy character. Is he someone to be leery of?

  Dressed in brown sweat stained baggy pants, a gray faded tee shirt, and a pair of worn boots with a big toe protruding through a hole in the right boot, the hatless dirty man reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and sour whiskey breath. Standing silhouetted in the moonlight he appeared to be menacing, but nothing earth shaking.

  With a wave of his hand, Professor dismissed the presence of the intruder and returned to his manual. That irritated Alex.

  Alex's eyes flashed, "Don't you know you are in big trouble?" he scowled.

  Without looking up from the manual Professor said, "Big trouble might be an over exaggeration. I am confident the solution is quite simple. I have concluded the problem has to do with the engine. What precisely the failed function of the engine is, is indeed another question."

  "Not trouble with the car, dumbass gringo, but with me," Alex screamed. "It’s Alex that you must fear, not your stupid car."

  "Oh, I would rather doubt that," Professor replied, still studying his manual. "I perceive the car to be in need of immediate attention. If I cannot quickly resolve the issue I shall be late tomorrow for an engagement significantly important to me. Such an occurrence is unspeakable."

  Alex managed to understand the reference to the car, the rest was far beyond his English comprehension. "It is I that is your biggest threat dumbass gringo."

  Looking up from the manual, Professor said, "My good fellow I would hardly consider you a threat, and certainly no more than the situation confronting me. Putting it in perspective you appear quite harmless I would judge."

  "You stupid gringo fool, I shall cut off your head, steal your money, and drive off in your fancy car."

  "Now, that's exactly what I mean!" Professor shouted, slamming the manual against his leg, "that is why you are no threat to me."

  Such an outburst was far from keeping with Professor's demeanor, seemingly, the late hour and his lack of understanding the mechanic
s of the Rolls had put him on edge. But, was that the way of it?

  Alex could not believe what he was hearing. He stared in disbelief at Professor. This dumbass gringo must be taught a lesson.

  Professor continued his rant, "You could cut off my head, you could steal my money—but how can you drive off in my car? If my car were running I would not be here in the first place, now would I? If you had the sense God gave a gnat you would allow me to repair the car before doing me harm."

  Because of a lack of anything else to say, almost as an afterthought, Alex said, "Dumbass, I could fix your car before I drive off."

  "Oh, sure, right, you’re an ace mechanic I suppose?"

  "What makes you think that I could not be the, how you say it, the ace mechanic?" Alex replied, forgetting to use his strong accent.

  Professor pressed on, "You don't look to me as if you could be an ace at anything. I would venture to wager you can't read your native tongue let alone English, and if you can, you would understand very little."

  Trembling with anger, "Damn it, I can so read, I can read as good as you. I can write reading, read writing, and speak proper speaking." Alex spoke in a low tone and with perfect pronunciation.

  "Oh for Pete's sake, if that is true, prove it," Professor replied, in an equaling low tone.

  "How?"

  "Read this section of the manual," Professor said. With a provoking grin, he opened the manual and thrust it toward Alex.

  With a jerk, Alex grabbed the manual. Suddenly it had become a matter of principle. Must prove to this ignorant gringo bastard I can read and even write, and can do that which the gringo cannot do, fix the car.

  The right strings had been pulled to set Alex off. Will fix the damn gringo's car and then fix the gringo's ass. How sweet it will be proving him wrong before killing him. Have not actually killed anyone, but have I not thought of it many times? By God today I will do it.

  Alex licked his thumb, turned a few pages then, slammed the manual shut. "I don’t need to read your stupid manual to fix your stupid car." He tossed the manual aside and moved to inspect under the hood. He had worked as a migrant farm worker, and had become adept with engines and other mechanical equipment. Within a few minutes he suspected the fuel filter was plugged and his suspicions would eventually prove out.

  He did not immediately make an announcement of his idea. Must make sure I’m right and right the first time. Then, shove the manual up the gringo’s ass and stomp him to death. The cutting of the throat would be good but do not have a knife.

  With a broad smile Alex retrieved a small toolkit from beneath the hood. Using an adjustable wrench he removed the fuel line. "Gringo, get in, hit the starter."

  Professor frowned. Had it been that simple? I'm embarrassed.

  Finally, after several engine starting failures, Alex disclosed his diagnosis. "I have it," he announced in jubilation, "your stinking fuel filter is plugged."

  Alex slid under the car and within a few moments produced a cup-sized item that he proclaimed to be the faulty fuel filter. He blew into a tiny pipe protruding from the filter, banged it into the palm of his hand several times, and slid back under the car.

  Within seconds he slid from beneath the car, and hurried to the engine compartment. Tightening the fuel line the job was finished. He shut the hood. "There, you dumbass gringo, I have fixed the car. Now, I shall cut off your head, steal your money, and drive off in my car."

  "Not so fast," Professor said, holding up a hand, "how do I know the car is indeed fixed. Am I to take the word of the likes of you? I should think not. I think I should at the very least start the engine to ensure the car has been repaired as you have professed."

  Alex was irate and filled with hatred for this arrogant gringo. The strings had again been pulled. He would kill the man, but first, it would give him the greatest of pleasure to prove he had found and repaired the problem. Fixed the very problem the gringo with all his wealth, with all his education, and with all his arrogance could not. Is okay, prove it then take it.

  "Start the car gringo, start the car and know the man that has killed you this day was your better."

  With a push on the starter button the engine cranked over several times but did not start. The two individuals smirked at each other through the windshield. With a jerk of his head Alex beckoned Professor to try again. At last, the engine started.

  "What a delightful surprise," Professor said.

  Alex was beside himself. He jumped up and down in child-like gestures, then skipped on one foot clapping his hands. He had won; he had put this arrogant gringo in his place.

  Alex's celebration ended in a shower of rocks and debris as Professor quickly accelerated past him.

  Alex became enraged. His hatred changed to screaming agony toward himself for being so stupid. The gringo had tricked him; had left him in the road feeling foolish.

  As he knelt on his knees sobbing in the dust, he saw the most unbelievable thing. The Rolls was returning?

  Alex stared through disbelieving wet eyes. The damn stupid dumbass gringo is coming back?

  Professor slowed the car and stopped where Alex stood. He rolled down the window and smiled, "Thank you, my friend, the car runs marvelously. You have indeed repaired it."

  Alex smiled, "Of course I fixed it. Why don't you get out and we shall talk on it."

  "Sure, I will be most happy to accommodate you." Professor opened the door and slid out, on his face a broad smile, in his hand a .45.

  As Professor exited the car Alex was in the process of taking a step forward when he saw the weapon. He skipped on his one foot on the ground and turned and stumbled away to his right, nearly falling down.

  "My sense of fairness compels me to thank you," Professor said, "now back to our business, you have vowed to rob and kill me?" Professor grinned, "Let me see, were you not going to cut off my head?"

  Alex stood with fear in his eyes, dryness in his mouth, and with a weak smile on his face.

  "To cut off one’s head one must have a knife of significant size. Amigo, do you possess such a weapon?"

  "No," Alex dejectedly admitted.

  "Unbelievable," Professor mocked.

  Alex fell to his knees and began praying.

  Professor stared but a moment at Alex and returned to the car. He slid in and released the brake. As the car eased forward, he said, "I would have killed you earlier but I required your services to repair my car. The only reason I allow you to live now is because you rendered those services."

  With that he drove off leaving Alex kneeling in the Mojave moonlight.

  Lick Lick

  Many things have changed in the medical profession over the years. I will relate to you a story that for the most part is actually happening throughout the medical facilities today.

  Early one morning, I awoke with chest pains. I mean big time chest pains. I felt as if a rope was being squeezed around my chest. I had heard no less than a thousand warnings on what these pains indicated, I had no doubt this was the big one. I was having a heart attack.

  I called the local hospital. Big mistake. I will tell all of you right here, if you think you are having a heart attack, stay home and enjoy it. Under no circumstances take your bad heart to a modern day emergency room.

  The whole disaster started with the dialing of the emergency room number. “This is the hospital emergency room hot line, please have your insurance card or a credit card available as the representative will not be able to help you without it, hold until your call is answered in the order it was received. To hear the following in English please press one, now.” Which I did, I live in an English speaking country. “For insurance questions, press one, for all questions about billing, press two, for all questions about appointment press three, for doctor referrals press four, for all other questions please call back on Monday through Friday during our normal working hours of nine to eleven and one to four, except on Wednesday afternoon we’re closed for golf, if none of these options address y
our problem, please hold the line and a representative will answer your call in the order that it was received.”

  About twenty minutes later, a voice in the receiver said, “Hello.”

  “Is this the hospital?” I asked?

  “Emergency,” came the reply.

  “I think I am having a heart attack,” I said.

  “Do you have insurance?”

  “Yes, yes I do, but I can’t seem to locate my card just now.”

  “You better find it, please don’t waste our time if you do not have insurance.”

  “I’ll find it before I come. The reason I called is to find out what I should do to prevent this heart attack?”

  “Well, don’t get upset, drink plenty of fluids, modest exercise is good. Let’s see, no salt, quit smoking as soon as possible. Oh yes, try to lose weight.”

  “But madam, I may be only ten minutes away from a heart attack!”

  “Hey, don’t yell at me, I didn’t get you into your present shape,” she replied.

  CLICK!

  Oh, I know I should not have hung up on the lady, but it would be okay, she had not gotten my name.

  When I arrived at the emergency room door, it was 2 a.m. After I located a place to park and walked to the emergency room door, it was 2:15 a.m.

  The place was packed. I approached the desk and smiled. I should not have smiled in the emergency room. Tip; don’t smile in an emergency room. Smiles are given to denote wellness. I had wasted a friendly smile. Emergency rooms have no friendliness.

  The solemn-faced nurse, seated at a large wooden desk, glared at me.

  “Hi, I’m Mr. -”

  “Insurance?”

  “Why, yes I -”

  “Take this clipboard and fill out these forms‑completely! If you don’t return the pencil, no service.”

  I took the clipboard along with a stack of forms. Then, I was confronted with the problem of locating a seat. The effort soon proved to be fruitless. I managed to locate a place standing next to a dull red wall between two drunks, or to be politically correct, two substance abusing homeless people squatting on the dirty floor, one a woman, the other a man‑I think, could have been visa versa?

  Finally, I could start the task of filling out the stack of forms. It must have been 100 degrees. The sweat would soon run down to the pencil’s point causing smudging.

  Item number one, list your Insurance Company; make sure you list the phone number and the address. Ha, I had them that information was in my wallet. I reached for my wallet. It was gone? I looked down dumbfounded. The two homeless people were dividing up the contents of my wallet.

  I acted quickly. I placed the sweaty pencil in my pocket and pointed it at the two dirty beggars “Give it back,” I said.

  The two stuffed most of the contents back into the wallet and one, without looking up, handed it to me, “Here, dude, if it upsets you that much.”

  I think it was male? Good, the insurance card was yet there. I went back to work on the forms. The first form was for my insurance information, the second, for my credit information. Normally, I would not have been so concerned about such forms, but on each, in large red letter, “No insurance, no credit - no service.” I did not know they could do that.

  As I was filling out the form I noted a large lady had gotten up and was painfully limping her way to a drinking fountain. She was slow. When she started to return, she spied me in her seat. She was not happy with me. She moved her sweaty, wide, body to my abandoned place against the wall and stood joining the two homeless people leering at me.

  I was rather proud of myself; I had managed to obtain a seat in only thirty minutes. Surely, I reasoned, a man with a heart attack would be much better off sitting than a fat lady with a sprained ankle.

  As I returned to my form, a large multi-colored lollipop was jammed into my face.

  “Lick lick,” offered a small child’s voice.

  “No thank you, honey,” I replied.

  “Lick lick,” she persisted.

  “No, dear,” I equally persisted.

  “Lick lick!”

  It was becoming obvious reasoning was not the key here. This little brat was less than three years old and from all indications was running a fever well into the triple figures.

  “You have a cute darling child,” I lied to the straggly-hair mother.

  “Could you watch her for a second, I need some air,” she blurted out, as she left.

  “Lick lick!”

  “No kid! Please go away,” I said, low and between clenched teeth. A mistake.

  She at once stared to cry. Before I knew it, she had crawled onto me, the lollipop was in my hair and her wet bottom was nestled in my before dry lap.

  “Lick lick.” Tears streamed down the small tot’s face melting my heart and the dye in the print on my forms. Who would have thought that such a small tot could be so full of moisture.

  All efforts to fill out the forms came to a stop. In less than an hour, and some fifty “lick licks” later, the mother returned. As she took the dripping child from me I could only remark what a cute little girl she was with her puffy red cheeks.

  “Yes,” the mother replied, “that’s why I brought Sweet Pea here, she has the mumps.”

  “How interesting, the mumps you say,” I said. “You know, that is the only childhood disease I escaped.”

  Well, being I was having a heart attack, catching the mumps seemed of a somewhat secondary concern.

  I returned to the task of filling out the forms. Once finished, I asked the mother if she would hold my seat while I returned the forms to the desk. She did not want to get involved. Odd, but I understood.

  As I stood two women, in print dresses with nylons rolled down below their knees, made a mad dash to my empty chair. A large lady, much in need of a bath, won out by a scant margin. Words were exchanged but punches were short in coming, though several men in the waiting room urged them on, “Cat fight, Cat fight.”

  “You sure smudged these,” the solemn-faced nurse at the desk said, “where’s my pencil?”

  I handed her the pencil.

  “Take a seat; you’ll be called when it’s your turn.”

  It was now 5 a.m. I tried to complain I believed I was having a heart attack and I had been sitting there for two hours.

  She snapped, “This is an emergency room and many people have been here much longer than you and are much sicker than you. Besides, you’re even smiling.”

  After an hour or so, the two homeless had been called, the fat lady with the bad ankle had been called, and the lick lick brat had been called. I never knew having a heart attack was so much work. I found a place to stand against the wall and dozed off.

  “Mr. Butler, last call for Mr. Butler.”

  “Here!” I shouted.

  “There is no need to shout, come this way,” a frowning fat-jowl nurse said.

  It was 6:30 a.m. Now I was getting someplace. I was going though the door to the back. I walked tall, with my shoulders held back. I wanted all to see that I was not just a number. All now knew I was somebody with insurance. I was passing through the door while they must remain here with their miserable lives waiting to be called. I was not next; I was, now!

  I passed through the door. On the other side was a large room about the size of the room I had left. Here were many chairs. However, the chairs were full of people. The two homeless were there, the fat lady, and of course, Lick Lick. It was like being among old friends; well, at least among individuals I knew.

  Although there was a sudden feeling of comfort by being in said room, I turned and went home. As I departed the hospital a new surge of life hit me. The visit to the emergency room had worked, I felt much better.

  The insurance company received a bill for eighteen hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad, considering that no tests were performed and the doctors did not see me. A good case could be made a nurse did not see me.

  I received a warning letter from my insurance company, somet
hing about refusing recommended treatment from a health care provider. This was not understandable since I had self-diagnosed myself as having a heart attack. Insurance companies can’t be too careful you know, they sure don’t want to insure anyone that might need it.

  I still wonder, often, what is the gestation period for the mumps?