Par for the Nurse

I'm glad I injured myself. Have some time off. It's a serious injury. My four-foot vertical leap has been reduced by one big toe and a little pinky that went wee-wee all the way home. That's what happens when you hurt your knee bone. Your knee bone's connected to your foot bone. (By way of the leg bone, of course.) Getting hurt goes with the job. I was watching this gawky looking, white guy pulling a humongous fridge up these stairs the other day. He was pulling it up backwards and not looking behind him. Then, when he got to the top, there was another stairwell to his rear, leading downwards. After that I only saw the fridge. I have some fond memories of being off school, in the hospital as a child. That's when I got into reading science fiction - but only the very best. Plus I was an excellent jigsaw puzzle assembler. Seemed to me I was wasting my time in class with all those great hospital activities I could have been doing. And nurses can't give you a detention because you're already spending the night there! I get along well with nurses. If they need me to undress or anything, I know it's for the best. They are truly creatures of compassion and beauty - though the hottest ones seem to be reserved for the patients with the most serious needs. I understand this and I'm all for it. I'm afraid I like the food there, too. I don't know why. The meals of institutions appeal to me. I like the tray and the plastic cup with the handle. Those deserts are tasty. Pies and puddings. But, above all, I like mashed potatoes. And hospitals and other institutions just seem to know how to make their mashed potatoes extra creamy. All this means is that if you see me limping by, wave 'Gidday!'; but if you see me decathaloning my way to the corner store a few minutes later, turn your head and remain silent.
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© 2010. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.