Worms Part II
The very tedious and scrambled Worms part oneI should have started this the proper way, the usual introductory paragraphs should have jumped on the page with the bits of biographical mumbo-jumbo, the social status, my report cards and G.P.A. sheets, my social security number and a few butt-naked pictures from my very early babyhood. I’m prone to monkey business usually and most often than not, I choose to grossly disregard the presence of others, thus failing to satisfy their need for reference and anchors. I’m not a ship. And this is not a proper orderly by-the-book story. This is my playground. And I daresay I’m rather whimsical and trite.
So I’ll begin by saying I like butter-baked croissants and one my cats is called Ollie. He’s a very slender gray-blue begging, stretching, meowing, purring furball. I’ve been looking all over for my other cat the past week. Cartman left us in hot pursuit of some dame. I expect he’ll be back soon as his “agility” and “survival instinct” amounts to nil. It’s very hard not to name your tomcat Cartman when he weighed 3 kg back when he was only 5 months old.
This quite unimportant part of my life being made clear as daylight, we shall proceed to the next section of this preposterous warming up account, that is my dislike for jellybeans. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a loser. It’s quite amazing how something so incredibly stupid and useless could have filled giant jars in every single sweet shop for centuries. (It just seems like centuries to me, the jellybean-hater. Plus I like being categorical. It’s like riding a motorcycle: You’re big, bad, leathery, into heavy metal, usually drunk, but you’ve got the power. Plus chicks really dig you) Back to our jelly-spleens now. Well, it’s a principle matter that I’d like to discuss: they’re a contradiction, some sort of annoying mutant. Neither the soft and wobbly jelly, nor the hard and crunchy bean. Sugar coated pieces of hard jelly shaped like spleens coming in various rainbow-coloured and rainbow-flavoured varieties. Why, oh, why?
The next matter of consequence is my job. Congratulations, you reached the point where the endless babbling about absolutely nothing stops and makes way for the very much fun profession of being a male nurse. There’s nothing sterner than that. No, we don’t get to wear the nurse’s caps stuck with pins to our hair, nor the very short uniforms. I, for one, was hoping I’d get a nice and clean job, where I’d distribute the everyday intake of medicine to the sickly old people, provide them with a few kind words and stupid jokes, take notes on the diseases and be the right hand of some decent doctors. Instead I got thrown in this stupid ward full of struggling premature babies, or sensitive mites who are dying from bronchitis or pneumonia. A place of pain, torture, whines and the occasional screeching of new teeth (an air-conditioned Hell), and most of all, no words. Now, aren’t you already praying that we went back to our jellybeans, cats and croissants?
Too bad, I wish I could do that too but I’m quite busy watching the “lilting babes in their serene cots” (short for little brats squirming and flailing around in their glass cases with the electrodes in a disorderly web on their bodies made by a blind and misguided spider).
Labels: Worms don't dance
posted by merimeriquitecontrary @ 8:25 AM
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