Yesterday I visited my sister Kitty in the hospital. It was her first overnight stay in one except to give birth to her babies. It is my fatal lifestyle that should have me yo-yoing in and out of the hospital. That is why I believe in the powerful magic of beer.
The parking lot to the hospital was crammed with cars as Pamela Anderson's tits are with eyeballs at a Lions' game. It is no wonder our hospitals are overcrowded. All we do is drive around with a cell phone stuck to an ear for exercize looking for diseases to breath in. I found a spot in the employee parking lot. All security has time for is keeping the number of cars stolen from the lot to one or two a day.
I entered the hospital through the emergency entrance. The scene was just like you have seen on tv except there were no police around. No police meant no shootings in the last several hours. The halls were lined up with people every bit as sick as the people in emergency beds waiting for someone to die upstairs so they can take their bed.
A lady at an information desk told me where to find Kitty. She looked like she had not splept for several days. I walked down the hall wishing my friends and relatives would stop getting sick so I would not have to listen to everybody wheezing, moaning and dying. They say around 2/3 of people do not walk out of hospitals they have been wheeled into. I hoped Kitty was going to beat the odds.
Of course the information desk turned out to be as reliable as the police under oath. There were four old ladies from the Punjab in the room Kitty was supposed to be in. I asked them, "Any of you know where Kitty is?" The four of them babbled in their faraway language before one of them told me she had been moved a few hours earlier. "Try the information desk downstairs." They love moving people around in the hospital. Each hospital has an admintrative head making $300,000 a year in charge of patient room transfers. There is another administrative parasite making the same sort of money transferring patients from one hospital to another. The motherfuckers make enough money and perks to make you puke.
I tried yelling for my sister in the hallway. That's how people have had to find me in the past. "Kitty!" "Over here," she answered from near the end of the hall. It was good to see my sister. I was surprized Hunky Z was not there. "He had to work. He'll be by in time for the specialist to come by and share his opinions with us. I do feel a little better though. So I am hoping they will not have to operate. At least not until after the Grey Cup."
I asked, "How come you got transferred out of the room with the old dears in it?
Kitty said, "Oh the nurse told me they found one who spoke English pretty good so they are going use her as a translator as long as she lives. Even if she gets better they will probably keep her in here as a free translator."
I suggested Kitty look up alternative therapies for whatever the croaker tells her she has. There is often something natural you can do for yourself instead of or in support of the pills they pour in your pie hole or jam up your ass.
Before I left I pulled a couple beers out of my jacket, put them in her bedside drawer and reminded Kitty, "And no matter what the doc says do not forget us Hockeys are fighters. We do not give in, the fucking world gives in, but not us."
"I know Beer," Kitty said as I kissed her good-bye, "The world will be pissing on your grave long before it will on mine."