Al Gore to Clean Toilets at the White House?

Writen by Lance Winslow

Well it looks as if Al Gore is warning all of us about global warming. And it looks as if he is promoting his new movie of the same time? Must be convenient to get free advertising like that. If Al Gore wants to be in the White House and he wants to clean up the globe and all the oceans of the world maybe he needs to start a little smaller.

Maybe he can become the White House janitor in clean all the toilets. We already know he has a security clearance and he has a few Secret Service people who are watching out for him as well. I believe Al Gore could clean up the world but I’d like to see some of his work first, show us these talents and therefore I’d like to see if he can also clean the journals on Capitol Hill and toilets in the White House.

I understand some of his Democratic friends wanted to put more Johns in the White House, but John Edwards and John Kerry were not elected. Perhaps all of them could form the White House janitorial crew and clean all the toilets. John Edwards could file class-action lawsuits with anybody in the White House who left to big of a turd. Of course John Kerry would probably find a lobbyist to do all his dirty work for him.

You know those lobbyist will bend over backward to do just about anything in Washington D.C. including both clean out a little crap and removing other crap, which is in their way. Let us get Al Gore to commit to cleaning up the world one toilet at a time. Consider this in 2006.

Lance Winslow

If Arnold Palmer Was A Muslim

Writen by Karen Fish

There is a saying that “Golf is like life only on a larger scale.” Have you ever noticed how people tie their self esteem to their latest score? Golf has golf psychologists but why not golf psychiatrists? What is the psychiatric reason for the 50 wars going on in the world today? Why can golfers from all over the world get along perfectly but family members are suing each other? If today there was a modern young great looking Arnold Palmer clone and if he was a Muslim there would be no Middle East conflict. Japan would make any Japanese golfer winning the Masters Emperor Hirohito. Is it my imagination or did Japan bomb Pearl Harbor but the moment that Isao Aoki tilted his putter up like a flag at full mast the United States and Japan became best friends?

Golfers have connections but why don’t they use them? Butch Harmon spent 3 years as the personal golf coach of the Sultan of Dubai. Why doesn’t the United States make Butch the Ambassador to the United Nations instead of John Bolton. Did he get the job because he’s related to Michael Bolton? If the modern Arnold Palmer clone was a Muslim named Muhammad Palmer and got invited to the Masters Champions Dinner then instead of calling the Americans “The Great Satans” the Muslims would be idolizing Muhammad Palmer today, and Augusta Georgia would become the third holiest place in Islam, right behind Mecca and The Temple Mount. In order to save life on Earth why doesn’t the United States send Butch Harmon, David Ledbetter, Hank Haney, Dave Pelz and a Korean ladies golf coach over to Dubai and quickly develop some boy named Muhammad into the greatest golfer since Bobby Jones? Imagine the 18th fairway on Sunday afternoon at Augusta lined with Kafiyas and Burkas being shown to 1 billion Mulsims on Al Jazeera as Muhammad Palmer birdies 18 to beat Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson and Michelle Wie. It would be everlasting peace on Earth forever. Let Fuzzy Zoeller insult the falafel at the Champions dinner. He would be beheaded in the locker room, which raises the issue, “How could golf be so popular without violence?” The answer is that it’s a distraction from the violence. If you want violence then just watch Ann Coulter on CNN. How dare she call that lovely college girl “Miss Smartie Pants.”

William A. Keleher: Getting Personal

Writen by William Keleher

The people of New Mexico may have heard of an individual named William A. Keleher. But I highly doubt if they know the real Keleher, because you can only know this truly amazing person with deep contemplation. In this article, I will try my level best to tell you about William Keleher, at least as much as I have learnt about him after extensive research and study. Please read on.

William Aloysius Keleher (1886-1972), was the offspring of David and Mary Ann Gorry Keleher. Three years after his birth, the family moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico where he enrolled at St. Mary’s Parochial School. Unfortunately, he could not complete the eighth grade when family needs forced him to drop out of school in 1900. Poor William had to work in order to help support his beloved family. He began his working life as a messenger for the Western Union telegraph company. He was promoted from a counter clerk to a telegraph operator, owing to his merit and skills. The following years saw him trying various jobs, never settling in a particular field. In this period of time, he worked in Bluewater Development Company and the board of education situated locally. A few years later, he was accepted by Washington and Lee University as a special student. He studied law and graduated in an impressive two years’ time (1915). The same year, he returned to Albuquerque to practice law. Eventually, he founded one of the largest law firms in the state (Keleher & McLeod) that would be named after him and his partner, A. Howard McLeod.

The firm (Keleher & McLeod), where Keleher devoted himself fully in the practice of law still runs strong today after so many years. As a matter of fact, it is perceived as one of the oldest and reliable law firms in New Mexico. Three of Keleher’s sons, William, Michael and Thomas are still affiliated with the firm.

William Keleher’s collection, not surprisingly, is situated in UNM since all of his children attended UNM for their degree. Moreover, many of Keleher’s grandchildren are studying or have studied there. It was in 1968 when this University offered Keleher an honorary degree. He gave an emotional birthday speech at its Alumni Chapel in 1962.

The family papers of Kelehers contain information on his wife and four sons. Information about Keleher’s family and siblings were also divulged by these papers. Also found was the Kelehers’ involvement in the fundraisers’ community and their ownership of different Albuquerque properties (most notably Altura Addition, Altura Shopping Center, Buena Vista Heights Addition, Huning Castle Addition, Mandell Business and Residence Addition).

In my opinion, Keleher lived his life to the fullest. Strictly speaking from Maslow’s theory of needs concept, Keleher reached the pinnacle as a human being which may sound really fascinating owing to the fact that he was a high school dropout. His accomplishments are sky-high and I can assure you, very few individuals soared to such heights in their span of life. The New Mexico Bar Association named Keleher one of the outstanding lawyers of the century in the year of 2000. He was also a news reporter, widely known author and a historian. University of New Mexico awarded him two honorary degrees. It is still not known to many that he was the attorney of Elfego Baca, a popular figure in New Mexico in the 1900s. Some of the most high-quality works on the Southwest were engendered by him. Books like “Maxwell Land Grant,”, “Fabulous Frontier”, “Turmoil in New Mexico”, “Violence in Lincoln County” and “Memoirs” are more than enough to prove his excellence in the fields he worked in. Zimmerman Library received the whole collection of William Keleher’s books and archive of papers/manuscripts, which would someday divulge more amazing works of the great man.

William A. Keheler lived in Albuquerque for eighty four years and passed away at the age of eighty six in 1972, but he left his memories, achievements and most importantly, inspiration to his descendants and the people of New Mexico. Men of such league do not grace the earth very often. It is an honor to have someone like W.A. Keleher in New Mexico.

Rural Relocation - Considerations and Adjustments

Writen by Nola Kelsey

So you’re thinking about going country? It’s time to abandon the frenzy of city life, drop the ‘G’ from the end of your verbs and trade your Gucci for goats. You long to be in a place where business is done on a handshake, where your backyard is bountiful and where folks welcome you with warm apple pie and a smile. You want the simple life.

Over 1.6 million people moved to rural communities during the first five years of this decade. Several stayed. This migration continues - reinforced by dozens of national and regional periodicals presenting sanitized ‘country chic’ to millions of armchair rednecks. Having read a myriad of books and magazines about goin’ county, you are convinced it is for you. Why not?

Editorials immerse you with prose of serenity found. You are infatuated by the ideal of carvin’ your own nitch in the wilderness, collectin’ the morning eggs and whittlin’ on the porch swing each evening. Throughout the country, gentlemen greet women with the tip of a hat and a polite, “Howdy Mam.” You long to raise your children in a community where graciousness abounds while folks commune with nature in perfect harmony. With each flip of the page of County Cool Magazine you feel your stress level dip.

Before you lapse completely into a coma, bear a few things in mind. Full-page glossies of family reunions held beneath towering, shabby-chic barns make for better magazine copy than centerfolds of locals trying to avoid making eye contact with your U-Haul. Stylized black and whites of cowboys branding in the parched mid-day sun sell better than snapshots of the Mayor’s dead horses being left to rot all summer long, directly in the center of town. Furthermore, triumphant tales of battling the elements flow better than ancient country septic lines. No one knows why the media doesn’t ‘glam-up’ peeing in your barn. It must just be a fickle public.

Fickle indeed. I for one moved my son from our life long home in San Diego to my birth state of South Dakota three times before it stuck. Each time I recoiled in under a year. Best friends, scores of humanities, the Pacific surf and Thai food are a lot to give up at one time. Harder still was the shattering of my rose colored glasses.

The secret to a successful relocation is knowing what to honestly expect so you can laugh cathartically when the inevitable bizarre scenarios emerge. Sudden disillusionment is rarely a knee-slapper. Nonetheless, once adjusted, country life is closer to Nirvana than most get here on Earth. Thus, while everyone else pumps pure country sunshine straight up your knickers, I consider it my obligation to provide balance to the Universe.

Almost daily I question my reasons for living in the hinterland. For these moments of apprehension, I maintain lists in my mind. My lists remind me both what drove me out of California and why I cannot abandon country life. A hardy dose of big city burn out definitely came into play. For starters, I realized I was so sick of commuting I’d rather endure seven months per year in an icebox with no sunlight than sit in another traffic jam. With that thought alone I was ready to pull up my roots. I also decided to move.

In fact, developing a loathing of the Urban Jungle was vital to my eventual ’success’ in relocating. In retrospect, my twig was definitely about to snap. Of course, so many city folk run around with fully bent twigs, we never realize the contorted conditions of our existence. That many people living in close proximity, under the confines of excessive regulations, is the proverbial pressure cooker.

Urbanites and recent country converts wondering if your view on life may be intensely contorted are welcome refer to my lists. They provide perspective. For example: Signs of how ’screwed-up’ you may be would include the following.

You’re having your morning coffee, a cow walks through the front yard. You don’t own a cow. You freak out, hit 911 and sue the Meat Packers of America.

You believe shoes matching your nail polish is in any way a daily priority.

You don’t recognize that it is morally bankrupt to apply for a permit from a homeowners association to put out a lawn ornament.

You carry more electronic gadgets on your person than Radio Shack inventories.

You drive to work past ‘that same old group of homeless people.’

You smile and say, “Hi,” to strangers only because you know it screws with their minds.

Your horse board expenses equal the Gross National Product of Guatemala

You’re convinced you are invisible and need two years of plastic surgery just so city gentlemen won’t let the C-Store door spring back in your face.

You pitch a fit when your favorite salad bar serves cheese made with non-vegetarian rennet, then drive the kids to Burgers Burgers Burgers.

Your children spend more time in the TV den than in treetops and you think that’s acceptable.

You get a building permit and three estimates to hang a painting.

Any chimes ringing? If so, remove yourself form Urbania immediately! Your twig is at maximum contortion! Give the country three years and you will stay. Transition is difficult, but once your up-tight attitude is vanquished, your twig unbends. These are the indicators you are settling in to the ‘Simple Life.’

You’re having your morning coffee. A cow walks through the front yard. You don’t own a cow. You sit down and drink your coffee.

Shoes’ matching each other is low on the list of daily priorities.

Your outhouse is not just a chic lawn ornament.

You save getting the chickens drunk for when you have houseguests.

You have no idea where your cell phone went, but the Border Collie is wearing your pager.

You drive to work past ‘that same old herd of buffalo’.

Your bird feeder expenses are equivalent to the Gross National Product of Canada.

Elk mounts ordain the walls of your favorite salad bar.

Your children spend more time in the their tree house than in school.

Yes, these are definitely telltale signs, you have lost that city pace. Although you can never voluntarily raise your stress level back to match city slickers, you have not lost yourself completely. Search the little places. Vestiges of your past will appear. These are the traits of an American Hybrid. While having your morning cappuccino, a cow walks through the front yard. You don’t own a cow. You toss it a biscotti.

You can’t decide whether to paint the walls of the outhouse in a contemporary or impressionistic motif.

You use the word motif in the same sentence with outhouse.

You actually make homemade preserves - wild chokecherries with a boisterous zinfandel you picked up in Napa last season.

Mascara before milking.

You winter in the gulf of Siam. You summer in bib overalls.

You smile and say, “Hi,” to strangers only because you know it screws with their minds.

You could never shoot a deer, but you can dress that sucker out in under two hours.

You fence in a sarong and thongs. (This one gets the neighbors talking.)

You frequently run to town for Hawaiian Tofu and Goat Chow.

You have a different pair of hiking boots for every occasion.

Egyptian cotton sheets and a commissioned replica of Picasso’s Woman with Three Breasts enclose the baby chickens being reared in your bedroom closet.

It’s true, every day more and more of us are getting too screwed up to ever return to the city. Still, for all our differences country folk and city slickers posses one commonality. Neither group thinks twice about the US Government’s Food Pyramid. I guess we have to start somewhere.

Rural Relocation - Considerations and Adjustments is an excerpt from the satire Bitch Unleashed: The Harsh Realities of Goin’ Country. A free e-book copy of Bitch Unleashed is available on Nola Kelsey’s web site at http://www.NolaKelsey.com.

Grocery Shopping: Caveman Style

Writen by Pamela Beers

Have you ever wondered what it was like to live in pre-historic times? Probably not. These are the things I think about when I have to go grocery shopping and stand in line for twenty minutes. My husband will tell you that the only time I go to the grocery store is when we run out of carrots and apples for the horses or cat food for our feline pal, Bear. As you can tell, grocery shopping isn’t one of my favorite things to do.

When I was at the store today, in addition to the treats for the four-legged animals in our family, I picked up a package of ground beef and some salad stuffyou knowroots and leaves and twigs. When cave people wanted something to eat, the women had to gather roots and leaves and twigs and pound them on rocks to tenderize them. We buy them already packaged.

Cavemen had the hardest job of all. If they wanted ground beef with their leaves, roots and twigs, they had to catch a dinosaur for dinner. I suspect that’s how they spent most of their day; gathering food, hoping to get back to their caves before becoming part of a tyrannosaurus’ main course.

So, the next time you have to go to the store for a couple of items for dinner, think about those cavemen and cavewomen. Standing in line to pay for your groceries is better than going out and catching a dinosaur and pounding your salad fixings on a rock. Go home, with groceries in hand, and give your spouse a big hug.

Happy writing!

Pamela Beers is a freelance writer, educator, and horse trainer who finds amusement in the most mundane things. Visit her website at http://www.pamelabeers.com.

Coyote Excuses Predatory Behavior; Claims Was Molested By Cocker Spaniel

Writen by Tom Attea

A coyote was caught molesting a flock of lambs. Confronted about his predatory behavior, he became immediately repentant and explained how he could have fallen into such disgraceful behavior. According to the coyote, he was, as a youth, molested by a cocker spaniel. After providing his excuse, he immediately sought rehabilitation as a vegetarian. A transcript of his entire confession follows:

I am truly sorry for molesting lambs. I just couldn’t help myself. You see, when I was a young coyote, I myself was molested by a cocker spaniel - not just once, but repeatedly, over a period of more than a year.

There I was, an innocent and youthful coyote on the prowl, with never a thought of clamping onto a lamb by the throat, dragging it to the ground, and making a meal out of it. No, sir, I was, like all normal coyotes, at least as far as I knew at that innocent time of my life, a complete vegetarian.

My troubled childhood began when I just happened to wander near a little red ranch, hoping to come on a head of lettuce or maybe a cucumber or carrot. But no sooner did I get near the fence than a ferocious cocker spaniel, red as flame itself, came running toward me, snarling and barking, teeth bared.

I didn’t know what to do, since I was completely inexperienced in the dog-eat-coyote ways of the world. I just stood there, thinking that otherwise kind of cute cur wouldn’t really molest me. But I was wrong. It leaped right at me and clamped onto my nose with its enormous teeth. I was stunned. I just couldn’t believe such a thing was happening to an innocent coyote like me.

I shook my head to try to fling the ferocious beast off. Thankfully, I was successful. The beast flew ten or twenty feet away and smacked onto the ground hard enough to lie there as if it might actually be unconscious and, therefore, dinner. Yes, I said dinner. Because I was already so physically and emotionally injured by my dog-bitten nose that I was considering giving up my vegetarian ways.

I crept over to look at it. But no sooner did I get near than its frantic eyes popped open. It began to growl and somehow managed to stagger back onto its feet. I howled back as threateningly as my childlike voice would allow.

Luckily, the cocker didn’t seem in the mood to come after me again, although it did kind of circle me with its body bent in a shape that I can only describe as cowardly. I howled one last time, just to assure my own safety. Then I trotted off into the woods, deeply shamed that I had let a generally harmless cocker spaniel victimize me.

As I lay in on a ridge overlooking the ranch, contemplating my aching nose, I still couldn’t believe what had happened. When I awoke the next day, my nose felt better, and I decided that mean critter had learned not to pick on me.

So I ambled back, looking for some juicy veggies. And don’t you know that awful animal came bounding right out again to molest me, yelping loud enough to nearly shatter my delicate ears. Worse yet, it leaped up and bit my nose again.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. By now I should have had the sense to stay away from the ranch. But I am an unusually trusting coyote and I just couldn’t believe that seemingly harmless dog was as abusive as it turned out to be.

Oh, go ahead and blame my innocence, but somehow I went back to that ranch on and off again for over a year. And don’t you just know it? That same red-as-blazes cocker spaniel always ran right out and molested me.

What can I say? I knew I had been injured for life.

Now, as a result of my sheltered upbringing, it never occurred to me that, if you’re a real coyote, you very likely do have a taste for lamb. I still believed all coyotes were 100% vegetarians. But, as a result of the terrible abuse I had suffered, I felt I would never again be a normal coyote, dining strictly on assorted produce. Now, I wanted to make up for all the abuse that cocker spaniel had inflicted on me.

That was when I decided the only thing that would satisfy me would be to molest other innocent creatures. Somehow, my mind settled on lambs. For the first time, the idea of attacking one and having it for dinner had extraordinary appeal.

So I crept back to the ranch, so as not to invite the wrath of the ranch dog, and, as soon as I was within range of the resident lambs, I leaped for the one that seemed, as I had once been, especially unsuspecting. I’m ashamed to admit it, but, to tell you the truth, that little lamb sure was mighty tasty. In fact, as I chowed down, I felt as if I was born to dine on lamb.

During the next several years, I enjoyed many an innocent lamb. Oh, from time to time, I felt a pang of guilt and tried my best to mend my ways. Why, more than once, I went to live in a vegetable garden with a high fence to see if I could rehabilitate myself. But somehow the joys of lamb always drew me back out. I just couldn’t resist the savory temptation.

Then one day, to my great relief, I discovered I wasn’t the only member of my species that lusted after lamb. I actually met other coyotes who enjoy the tasty little innocents, too. And guess what? They all told the same story. They had, to a coyote, been molested by one kind of ravenous dog or another when they were young.

So you see, although you would like to blame coyotes for molesting lambs, the truth is we are not the ones to direct your anger at. The creature to blame is the dog. If we were not molested by that merciless predator when we ourselves were young, I can assure you that we would never even think of molesting helpless lambs. We’d all be perfect vegetarians, just like rabbits, who, incidentally, I regret to say, I have also enjoyed from time to time as part of the misbehavior I attribute to that evil cocker spaniel.

I’ve talked to a number of other coyotes about the whole painful issue of abuse as a child, and we’re all in agreement. Don’t blame us; blame the cocker spaniels and other canines you treat like members of your own family, while you look down on us coyotes.

Now, some people may say that I’m just trying to make a pitiful excuse, and I can understand that reaction. It’s easy to see we’re all born with a closetful of excuses, and any time we do something wrong, all we have to do is reach over an take out a handy one. I can also see how some people might say that the more honorable thing to do is behave in a way so you don’t have to reach in there for an excuse or, if you misbehave, to keep your hand out of the closet and take the blame right square on the nose, even if it’s as banged up as my own repeatedly victimized proboscis.

In conclusion, if you have to blame somebody for my behavior, I point you to the cocker spaniel who sent me down the road of being a lifelong predator of lambs, the more innocent, all the better to jump them.

Registered Nuts - A Night in the Life of an ER Nurse

Writen by Michael Wayne Brown

I’ve ceased with the pre-shift ritual of meditating in my parked truck along with a soothing piece of music. No more prayers to God en route to work asking for more patience, more humanity, more understanding. I have accepted the fact that it will be no different than any other night in the Emergency Department, no matter if I blare Yanni’s rancid piano etudes or make a promise to God to pass out my own body parts to the discharged patients as they leave. Nothing will change. I use to look forward to making a difference in someone’s life, helping a poor soul whose body has given out. Those moments are few and far between now. Instead, I resign myself to the fact that the next 12 hours will be spent pasting a fake smile on a tired body, going through the motions of caring, repeating ready-made lines of false concern and giving out medical advice that fall on deaf ears. I use to feel important in my role as Charge Nurse at a major ER of an inner-city charity hospital. Now, as I sit in my truck at 6:45 in the evening, gangster rap blaring, I send out a quick impromptu message to God….. “Please God, allow me the opportunity to be gainfully employed 12 hours from now.”

7:02 PM-

I receive a quick report of the clingons and leftovers who haven’t made it out of the department by change of shift and to no surprise to myself and the night crew, a few names are all too familiar and the reports of their latest “illness” easily recitable from memory. The usual apologies from the day crew for not getting them out before we arrived go unnoticed. A shrill screech from one of the psych beds startles no one. We all just look up from within the “safe” confines of the nursing station, confirm that our overweight security force is camped out beside the room, shake our heads briefly and go on about our business. We go through the ritual of taking our own baseline vital signs, popping a few Xanax and removing sharp objects from our pockets. Patient safety is important and we wouldn’t want to accidentally stab one of them repeatedly in the chest.

7:17 PM-

My primary job aside from direct patient care is triage. Initial interview, vital signs, brief medical history, current medical problem, current medications, height, weight etc etc. My first of 35 or so fits the typical profile of this or any other ER in the country. 40 year old, female, morbidly obese, diabetic, hypertensive, multiple psych meds, very little English, less common sense, no means to pay. She complains of the usual nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and generalized abdominal pain. She’s already spent thousands of dollars of other people’s money last week for the same complaint. She didn’t fill her scripts, didn’t follow up with her Gastroenterologist as requested and by no means was this 300 + lb, truffle hunting leech going to alter her diet one iota in order to prevent another attack of diverticulitis. Her idea of a “Clear Liquid Diet” was a bucket of chicken and bowl of menudo an hour prior to her arrival. So here she is, totally oblivious as to why she is still sick. Non-compliant with her meds, non-compliant with the discharge instructions, follow up or diet instructions, which included a bland, low-fat, liquid diet for a few days until she was able to tolerate semi-solid/or solid food.

She bitches profusely when she is not brought straight back and put into a bed, instead she is sent back out to the waiting area for a lengthy wait. We are full and busy with the truly “emergent” patients but she can’t seem to fathom this. She barrels through the exit door, into the waiting area calling me every name in the book (in Spanish) and swearing to never come back again. “PENDEJO!”, she mutters. Oh, she’ll be back.

“NEXT”!

7:31 PM-

My 3rd patient is a 23-year-old mother of 3, the oldest being 10. She has somehow mistaken our “EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT” for a pediatric clinic and wants her brood “checked out” because they feel “hot.” No temperature ever taken at home, no Tylenol or Motrin given before the decision was made to spend $1500.00 of other people’s money and to waste our time babysitting 3 snot-nosed, unkempt ankle-biters who are no more sicker than the man in the moon. I usher them one at a time onto a scale for weights and am not surprised that each is twice the size they should be at their particular ages. One, I have to pry finger foods and a “Big Gulp” from their obstinate little mitts prior to the weight so as not to inadvertently add 5 lbs to his already triple digit reading. The electronic scale beeps incessantly and reads, “ONE AT A TIME, PLEASE.”(Ok, not really) With all their vitals being normal they are ushered out into the waiting area where they eagerly pounce on the furniture and run around like the defensive line for the Attention Deficits.

I am verbally attacked by my obese belly pain lady, who has “been waiting for hours” (uh, how about 20 minutes). I instantly notice the “positive Cheetos sign” on her fingers and around her lips and remind her that the sickest are seen first and to have a seat. She tosses me a “Pincha Pendejo” and rumbles back to her seat. I sneak in a quick call to God asking that he makes sure she looks before she plops back down in her chair(s). I can hear the intercom announcer now, “CODE BLUE TRAUMA, ER WAITING ROOM.” I mentally picture the scenario of the code team spending the next hour removing baby Julio from the rectum of a 300-lb verbally abusive Hispanic woman. “NEXT”!!

9:21 PM-

I’ve survived the dinner crowd with my job intact and make my way back to the treatment area to assist the rest of my team in the treatment of the patients who were lucky enough to make it back ahead of the non-emergent riff-raff. I make my way to the EMS radio station when I hear…..”Unit 842 code 2 patient report”….we have a 102 year old nursing home patient,….found unresponsive on the floor….no IV….she’s now awake, combative, confused, covered in stool, incontinent of urine, blah, blah, blah…” The report from the nursing home prior to her EMS transport reveals that this patient had a tendency to “dig out stool from her rectum when constipated.” “Oh, that’s just friggin lovely”

9:25 PM-

The waiting room intercom a buzz……”I beeen waiting for 10 hours, you pendejo…you piece of….” Click!

9:33 PM

Our lovely elderly finger painter arrives, covered in poop from head to toe. EMS personnel smirk as they wheel her by, updating us as to any changes en route. Nope, no changes, except that now she’s given up the fight and is again unresponsive and her breathing more shallow. In an instant her breathing stops and is immediately rushed to trauma 1 where CPR is initiated. “CODE BLUE ER-1, CODE BLUE ER-1.”

9:57 PM-

“Time of death, 9:55″ is belted out by the code team leader. “She never stood a chance.” “It was her time.” “She had a long and good life.” Blah Blah Blah Blah. She had a horrendous death. Born covered in amniotic fluid, but certainly a proud moment for her parents one can be sure. She died, however, covered in shit, piss and bedsores. The nursing home where she spent her remaining days in agony and perpetual loneliness should be burned to the ground. No family, no attention, nowhere near as prominent and proud as she once was. Left to waste while the understaffed workers at Our Lady of the Perpetual Petri Dish took their extended breaks and pillaged through her personal belongings. A courtesy call to the nursing home is placed telling them that Mrs. Mullins will not be coming back and has been transferred to the ECU (Eternal Care Unit). I hear, “Whew, thank God…..CLICK.”

10:22 PM-

Our usually bevy of drug-seeking, bipolar, depressed, suicidal, Xanax, Vicodin, Demerol hounds arrive as scheduled with multiple and varied complaints of, migraine headaches, chronic back pain, stress, anxiety, fibromyalgia, blah, blah, blah….! They are easy to spot, almost always familiar, with the same ole’ story. Most we know on a first name basis. They are all, coincidentally, allergic to the same medications; Tylenol, Motrin, Vistaril, Toradol, Aspirin or any other non narcotic or harmless placebo we’ve attempted to quell their “pain” with in the past. The only thing that works is “Demerol” and they must have a large supply of Vicodin in the form of a prescription when they leave. (Vicodin has Tylenol in it but apparently doesn’t cause a severe allergic reaction when mixed with euphoria,….go figure!)

Security is usually called, for to tell them “no drugs tonight” is just asking for a fight. $1000.00 later of other peoples money and they usually leave with their buzz on and their script for Vicodin. But usually not before asking for a “shot for the road” or additional scripts for anxiety (preferably Xanax) or sleep aids. 30 pills are often the number of pills given, depending on the frequency of the prescribed dose. This usually last a few days for the typical drug seeker and then they’ll usually return with more “pain” and a hungry monkey.

In the age when Doctors are sued for both under treating pain OR for prescribing too many narcotics and “getting them addicted”, we medical personal are caught up in the proverbial “catch 22″. More often than not I have been written up and on several occasions was at a point where my job was in jeopardy because I challenged their pathetic lies whenever these low-life drug addicts invaded our ER’s. Now I just shut up, shake my head and pray for an overdose.

11:12 PM

Waiting Room intercom is ringing off the wall. “…how long will I…….can you tell me where I am on the list……Donde esta su Doctor…….I can’t find my child……..the dingo ate my baby…..PINCHE PEDEJO, I BEEN HEER FER TWO FUCKING DAYS AND MY ASS FEELS LIKE SOMEONE POURED SALSA RIGHT UP MY……….click.

Midnight in the garden of good (for nothings) and the evil (doers)-

After a flurry of non emergent triages, (sore toe, “the shakes”, anal abscess, foreign bodies in the nose, ears and stomach of a 2 year old, blah blah, blah) I call in an astute, well dressed, middle aged white male, who is walking quite gingerly and refusing to sit. Differential diagnoses race through my head, back pain, abdominal pain, rectal abscess,. or perhaps….no!….NO!……NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Yes!

The story goes (and it is a common one) that he and the Mrs. were “experimenting” in bed (against his wishes, no doubt) when a vibrator was jammed in his keester and is now painfully out of reach. Given the nature of the “injury” he is whisked back to a private room, placed on his side, lubed up like a 57 Chevy, and a valiant effort is made to retrieve the 12 inch “perpetrator with ribs” from his large bowel. All to no avail. At one point we had a hold of the foreign body (actually, it was made in the US) but the colon wouldn’t let go of it’s new found cylindrical friend. We tugged, twisted, yanked, pulled, all efforts proving futile. Finally the physician stopped, exhausted from the tug-o-war match, with the forceps, commonly used to removed big headed babies, protruding from the prominent lawyers butt, he made the decision to call in the surgical team. All efforts to remain professional, however, fell by the wayside when, during a moment of silence, a low buzz was detected in the room. Had the blood pressure cuff inflated? Were the incandescent lights buzzing? Was the TV on?

No, no and no. We looked at the forceps and noticed they were vibrating uncontrollably, instantly realizing at that point that this thing was STILL ON. A mad rush by the scant crew to the exit door of the private room was attempted as to not embarrass this local professional with our boisterous laughter. No dice.

We will all eventually be written up and apologies made for our “unprofessionalism and disregard for the patient’s privacy and mental well being”. That’s ok. We needed that to preserve our own mental well being. Still proving that laughter is still the best medicine.

1:02 AM

Ten triages later and its dinner time for this mentally worn crew. We retrieve our food, locate it to the middle of the nursing station and we eat. Not all at once, mind you but usually a bite at a time. Eat a French fry, go wipe an ass in ER-1, a bite of a Big Mac, go clean up cherry cool-aid flavored vomit in ER-4, a sip of Dr Pepper, then physically restrain a combative Scitzo-effective patient. By 2:15 we have polished off the last bite of a hardened burger, ate our last stale French fry and sucked down the last gulp of our watered-down soda. A soda that is now as warm as fresh urine and food that is as cold as Mrs. Mullins in ER13.

2:30 AM-

Ahhh, my favorite time during the entire shift is upon us. The “Last Call at the local bar crowd” (LCLBC) start to pour in to the front entrance, while EMS brings the ones who got the shit kicked out of them through the back ambulance entrance. “Santa Rosa, this is unit 842….we are coming code 2 trauma with a 19 year old male…..closed head injury….intoxicated…combative….soiled….bloody…..no insurance…..blah, blah,blah.

The same ole song and dance spews from this patients bloodied spout as he is wheeled into Trauma-2……”I was just minding my own business”……”I only had two beers”…..”I don’t do drugs”….. “Can I get something to eat?” “RAALLLLLLPHHH!” “Housekeeping to ER Trauma-2, Housekeeping….”

2:31 AM-

“Dear Lord, If ANYONE can make time travel possible, it’s you, God.” “Pleeeese, send me forward to 7 AM.

3:03 AM-

Patient waiting room intercom is screaming………..”CLICK”…….”BANG, BANG, BANG”.

3:15 AM-

I am ushered into the staff break room for a “time out” and reminded by the night supervisor that the cost of the intercom will be deducted from my paycheck.

4:18 AM-

Our portly female beast of a woman is finally ushered back to a room but not before mumbling under her breath as she brushes past me, “Pendejo”! A major “abdominal work-up” is ordered. 40 lab tests, urine tests, stool cultures, abdominal x-rays, Cat Scans, blah, blah, blah……She’s placed in a gown that looks like curtains stolen from the Grand Ole Opry, and given the reminder “Opening to the back, please,” tossed in for good measure. (”Lord, give me the strength to………..Oh fuck it, never mind”)

She’s given a URINE cup as she bounces her way to the bathroom. She fills it with STOOL. “Housekeeping to ER, STAT.”

Can’t find a blood pressure cuff large enough so we must take a chance at an erroneous reading by placing it around her calf or forearm. The hydraulic bed grunts and groans with ever twitch and shift from this woman of substances. She continues to bitch and moan and will eventually file a complaint with (in) human resources, I am sure. Multiple attempts at IV access finally yields a vein that hasn’t been choked off by the mass of arm fat and IV fluids are initiated. After a quick assessment by the ER physician she is off to radiology, with a little 120 lb tech pushing 600 lbs of patient and bed up to the 3rd floor for a series of $3000.00 radiologic exams. X-rays that were done just last week and that she has no intention or means to pay for. It would have been easier (and cheaper) had she driven to Sea World instead. Certainly more accommodating for a woman of her stature.

5:57 AM-

Multiple early morning stragglers are triaged and sent to wait. The foul odor of urine, poop, BO, booze, vomit, etc, permeates the air. “One Hour Left”, I thought. We get all the results of the voluptuous Ms. Hinojosa’s tests back and surprise, surprise….”Diverticulitis.” Perhaps this time she will be compliant with her meds, compliant with her diet, compliant with her follow up, compliant with life. “Fat chance,”I thought. (Pun intended).

Her IV is removed and a half gallon of fat globules ooze from the harpoon hole. She is hoisted off the bed with the help of several departments within the hospital; half of who will call in sick tomorrow with severe back spasms. The battered stretcher which now resembles a low-rider after a major accident is towed to the back for repair. Ms Hinojosa is discharged but not before requesting a breakfast tray. Request denied.

Off she goes to the local “Taco Cabana” for a flurry of assorted breakfast tacos and a bowl of menudo. “She you in a few days, Ms Hinojosa.”

“Pinche Pendejo!”

6:47 AM-

The dismal faces of the morning crew are evident as they reluctantly make there way in, some still in mid-prayer, the newer nurses with walkman’s on, listening to ocean waves or cricket noises saturated with Muzac. A quick report is given to the mentally exhausted night crew and apologies made for the missing bed in ER 3 and the dead body in ER-12.

7:07 AM-

Each member of the night crew, each with a phone in hand, are awaiting the instant the clock strikes 7:08 where, with lightning speed, a flurry of buttons will be punched to clock out, ending another horrendous but typical night in the ER.

7:47 AM-

I pull up to my apartment and sit quietly in my truck. I recall the night’s events and wonder if I had made any critical errors in care or judgment. I mentally prepare for the answers to the complaints made the night before by this unique ER culture of ignorant, non-compliant, abusive, poor, helpless, drugged-up, psychotic, dregs of society.

I say a prayer for Mrs. Mullins and her family and curse all those who’ve abused the system in the last 12 hours, spending thousands upon thousands of dollars of other people’s money but contributing nothing to society what-so-ever. Once I deem that I will have a job come 6:45 that evening, I ease my tired body and shattered mind out of my vehicle, meander up to my apartment and into bed, hungry, frustrated, angry. Where I will fight the demons for an hour or so until I am able to fall asleep. I don’t. I am woken by a dream whereby the ER staff are all patients in the waiting room on a busy night. I am called into the back where a 500-lb female nurse is ripping my clothes off with one hand and swinging a 6 foot rectal scope in the other like a pair of numchucks in a Bruce Lee movie. The alarm clock sounds and I immediately spring up and grab my ass, praying that a 6-foot proctoscope isn’t dangling precariously from it. It’s not. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way to the shower and into another fateful night of chaos and mayhem.

6:43 PM-

I pull up to the ER, park my truck and sit. I clip on my name badge, giggle as I read our “Mission statement” tattooed on the back. “To extend the healing ministry of Christ,” it reads, and I take a minute to ponder that statement. I smile, acknowledge it’s powerful and profound meaning and bow my head to pray. “Lord, today, give me your divine power to accept my responsibilities within this ministry. I pray that…”

Just then a beat up delta 88 rolls by on two wheels, with a definite lean to one side. I watch as they take up two parking spaces in the “staff” lot and out pops Ms Hinojosa. I cringe. She leaves a trail of urped-up fajita and menudo through the patient parking lot, into the physicians parking area, towards the ER entrance. Anger churns inside me and I hang my head, looking down at my badge and the mission statement on the back. I try desperately to find the peace and pride I felt just 2 minutes earlier and I resume my prayer……”Lord,….I just…….If you could only find it in your heart to…………OH FUCK IT!!!!!……. NEVER MIND.”

Michael Brown is a Registered ER Nurse from Texas. He is currently taking no medications at this time.

Regency Headdress: Hats, Caps, Bonnets, Bandeaux!

Writen by Linore Rose Burkard

No doubt we are all familiar with the bonnet, the quintessential 19th Century head-covering for women. In “Pride and Prejudice” (the older BBC production) we often find Lydia or one of her sisters at work, endeavouring to dress up a plain bonnet. This was undoubtedly the least expensive way to imitate the latest modes. But a bonnet was only the beginning of what a fashionable belle might sport upon her head.

During the Regency, a lady did well to wear some sort of hat, usually a bonnet, upon leaving her house for any reason whatsoever. To go bare-headed would have been seen as a sign of ill breeding. Understandable, then, that the Bennet girls–and all gentlewomen–were appropriately concerned with the state of their headwear.

Yet–if “bonnets” were just the beginning, what followed?

First, ornamentation and beribboning, which could include almost anything that was considered attractive–from jewels to feathers to beads, faux flowers, brooches, veils, (not full-face, unless in mourning, usually), lace, silk, scarves, ruched fabric (gathered), and so on. As the variety is nearly endless, it’s impossible to describe them all.

After the bonnet ( which itself came in many forms, from the poke bonnet–a high but narrow-brimmed affair which shadowed the face, and which grew in popularity over the course of the century–to those resembling a cap), there were:

Finally, women could, on evening occasions, forego an actual hat entirely, in favor of mere ribbons, pins and other artful ways of adorning the hair (such as the aforementioned tiara). And, never forget, that headdresses were worn over hair that had most often already been done up in some style, probably an elaborate one, particularly for full-dress occasions.

To be accepted at Court, a lady was actually required to include feathers “at the back of the lady’s head”.
The Regency? You’ve got to love it!

___________________________________

Linore Rose Burkard writes Inspirational Regency Romance as well as articles on Regency Life, Homeschooling, and Self-Improvement. She publishes a monthly eZine “Upon My Word!” which you can receive for FREE by signing up at her website quickly and easily. For her latest short story check Here Ms. Burkard graduated from the City University of New York with a Magna Cum Laude degree in English Literature, and now lives in Ohio with her husband and five children.

View from the Stage: Six Pounds Tall!

Writen by Gary Wesselhoff

The other day I was “putzing” around in the garage when Andrew, (my “little guy”) approached. With great curiosity asked “whatcha doin’ Dad?”"I’m building an atomic fission accelerator little guy,” I teased. “Oh, Can I watch?” (no doubt he had never seen anyone build one of those before…) “Sure.”

It wasn’t long before Andrew’s attention drifted from my work to a twenty-five foot measuring tape laying on the bench nearby. After examining it for a moment, he proceeded to measure the distance between my left knee and my right wrist. He studied the numbers with great intensity, then he was ready to present his findings. “Gee Dad, you’re Six Pounds Tall!” he said with obvious pride.

I contained my laugher and delight and answered, “Well Andrew, looks like I’m growing again.” “Yes” he said, “we all are.” And do you know something? He was right.

I showed him how to clip the end of the tape onto an object and to read the numbers. Immediately after acquiring this new skill, Andrew was off on a mission to quantify his world. He measured and measured and measured for hours.

It can be like that for us onstage. We have wonderful equipment “tools” of our trade. We have the desire to grow. We have friends, fans, and family to help us through the process. We just need to take that first step forward and pursue building our skill sets.

It’s a new age. I encourage everyone to develop an action plan. Not a big complex comprehensive plan for years down the line, but a plan for the next few weeks. Pick out an area of focus or a skill that you would like to add to your “bag of tricks.” It doesn’t have to be something difficult; in fact some of the best ideas are simple ideas. Make an effort to learn the art and science of networking or perhaps the marketing process; make it interesting to you. Keep chasing your goals a few weeks at a time. We live in a complicated environment, but as the saying goes “Even an elephant must be eaten one bite at a time.”

Don’t forget business. Make a point this year to learn more about your business. How does your sound relate to your goals? Who are the big players? Like musical knowledge, business knowledge will help us grow as professionals. It’s a Win-Win situation; everybody gains, everybody is proud of the accomplishment.

Andrew is right; we all are growing. As for me I’m six pounds tall already. He told me so and he ought to know, because he still has my “measure-er.” I’m never going to get that thing back.

Gary “g-man” Wesselhoff is an acoustic blues writer/performer woking the Chicago Metro area. You can contact him at: gman@gmanblues.com

Please Visit my site: http://www.gmanblues.com

Black Authors

Writen by Damian Sofsian

African-American or Black authors, the flip side of the American literary idealists, are traversing barriers to enter into the mainstream writing and publishing world. Their inspiration is the development and popularity of indigenous “black” music, dance, visual arts, architecture, and famous names in different fields.

The journey has been long and eventful, with authors being limited to specific genres dictated by lifestyle and social place in American society. The early works were mostly memoirs, slave narratives, Sunday school literature, or oratory dealing with twin issues of racism and slavery.

Lone voices were there, but the real breakthrough came with the Harlem Renaissance, centered in the Harlem area of New York. This was the intervening period between the two World Wars, and the movement brought with it a strong sense of pride for Americans in general. African-Americans discovered a sense of racial pride and looked to their surroundings and history for inspiration. The Civil Rights movement was another turning period, leaving a powerful impression on black authors of 1960s such as W E B Dubois, Ralph Ellison, James Baldwin, Alex Haley, and Richard Wright; female African-American authors including Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, and Gloria Naylor expanded the theme with black protagonists. Topics like slavery, racial discrimination, evangelism, black ethos and roots inspired future generations of authors.

Black authors are now topping best-seller lists simply by moving beyond categorization of style and substance. Another reason for growing popularity of Black authors is the support of Oprah Winfrey and other well-wishers, on-line media campaigns, blogs, web pages, author readings, literary works, critiques, and essays. The change is visible, and Black voices are being heard and noticed, especially E. Lynn Harris who is unafraid to dabble in taboo topics of black gay fiction. A new generation of young writers, still in their thirties, such as Junot Diaz (Drown), Edwidge Danticat (Krik! Krak!, The Farming of Bones) and Patricia Powell (The Pagoda), are intent on leaving their imprints with historical novels and ingenuous images of race and cultural identity.

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