Hospitably Speaking
I cannot resist to share with you what is being shared with me in this wating room in which I currently find myself. Since I’ve usually been the operatee, I have not been given the pleasure of being in this room full of humanity.
“Johnson, you have a telephone call.” That just came over the intercom, which I might point out is as needless as a No. 3 pencil on a scantron exam. This entire waiting room is about the size of a living room in a pre-fabricated home. “When Mikey went to jail, we told her not to leave him inside, because he was attacking the cat.” I may have to come back to that, but I’m just going to type out whatever comment I may hear, due to my absolute lack of memory. The woman partaking in this philosophical equivalent to Plato and Socrates discussing farts, just said, “Animals can turn on ye.” To which, “That’s why I have Chihuahuas.” was retorted.
Back to the discussion that used to be at hand, the beauty or ignorance of this room is that it’s so small, you can hear all the HIPPA-violating conversations going on. Hell, I’m so close to some of these people, I can hear what they are thinking. It does have hardwood floors as if someone from “Fancy Up Your Fabricated Home” on the Home and Garden Network came in and spruced the place up. “If you’re going to eat sweets, do it responsibly.” This same woman just said she weighs over 330 pounds. Apparently there has been threats of a lock on this woman’s refrigerator by her husband. Her problem is, if she gets a bag a chips, she just don’t eat a few, she eats the whole bag. She has attempted to thwart her chippery by buying smaller bags, and for every one she eats, she gives six to the dog. I swear to whoever you believe in, this is really being said within keyboard range. I can’t believe these people don’t realize I’m typing like a transcriptionist on Adderall after each and every word they say.
“It doesn’t help that Michael can sit there and eat 5 Arby’s sandwiches and be as small as he is. He wears a small.” Based on the previous threads of this conversation, I find it hard to believe Michael – which seems to the BBW (porn term) lovin’ thin man (not the oil needing dude from The Wizard of Oz) married to this behemoth of intellectual enlightenment – isn’t tackled, tased or held at gun point any time he brings five Arby’s sandwiches into the home.
The chairs have kind of a 70′s funky turtle shell pattern that, thank god, is not counteracting my Lamictal or sense of hearing. It has been confirmed. The guy wearing the camouflaged wife beater that would only hide him in the Antarctic or on Hoth, is Michael. His bride with the 330lb ass and it’s own zip code just asked Michael to kill a seemingly injured or ignorant fly walking around on the hardwood.
“The Redd Family.” is all the old chick on the intercom said after answering the phone. It’s like surgery bingo up in here. A name is called out, and you blot your card. If Kawolcheck is next, I win. I just noticed that Big Talker – Indian name – has a tattoo on her right shoulder. It does not appear to be any sort of perishable item or fast food logo, but it definitely has been stretched further than any spandex she has ever worn.
And then you got your anonymous, random people that come in and look around, like they’re casing the joint for something nefarious. They don’t say anything, show any credentials or ask anyone to submit to a polygraph, but they definitely look like there “uhthoritie” needs to be respected. They only hang around for an average of 30 seconds to a minute, but it makes you somewhat antsy nonetheless. You can definitely tell who might be holding in this crowd, because some of these cats mysteriously get called by nature and head towards the head every time a sick bay sentry rolls up in this joint.
“When Randy was four years old, he was big enough to pick up my grandmama.” Randy is apparently not here, because I’m sure he would have stood up, flexed his biceps and taken credit for such a feat of strength, had he been present. Not to mention the girth or weight of the grandmother that was sack-o-tatered was never mentioned. If she had osteoporosis or was too short to ride rides at theme parks, I’m not impressed.
“He’s the anti-Christ.” To which the older participant queried, “How old is he?” To which our clearly-not-on-heroin-heroine replied, “Two years old.” Damien didn’t even match those numbers. I don’t know how you’d figure a two year old to be the anti-Christ. If he threw up pea soup like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, that could merely be a mix of gastric juices and baby food peas. If his bodily discharges were extremely funky, that could be attributable to that sour mash-like baby food they’re all fed along with that un-Kool Aid like formula mixture forced upon them. On the other hand, if they incessantly watch Teletubbies, then you may have yourself a problem. Jerry Fallwell was only touching the surface of there ungodliness when he went after the purple, purse carrying, apparently man-on-man loving one.
To be clear, before this ends, I don’t believe I’m perfect in anyway and admit my love can be handled very easily around my waist. My forehead is scarred with what appears to be a surgeons take on the river Nile, and I have such a little ass that it appears my sizable gut ate it at some point during my college career. My legs are skinner than an anorexic chicken with anemia, and I’m more pasty than a hungry first grader’s mouth. I just call it like I see it and, this particular morning, I’m apparently seeing things rather critically and I thought I’d do a little sidebar showing I get as much as I give.
The chick at the waiting room front desk is on the phone every time it rings, like an actual Indian on Microsoft’s Help Line. I know that happens once in a red dotted moon, but I have experienced it. They must have been bored that day. Anyway, when she answers the calls, she either gets on the aforementioned intercom, or simply calls out the name of the family which needs a designated representative to talk to whoever. It’s almost like managers meeting at home plate and exchanging lineup cards before a baseball game. These people run up there, talk to the lady and then speak to whomever on the phone.
O.K., at the risk of chapping my wife’s robe exposed ass, I’m going to shut this down. As I’ve said before, I’m completely responsible for all errors and loony thoughts. There were a lot of quotations in this note, and I don’t know how to convey the finger bending hand gesture that is the style of the times. I shall return. Keep your head on your shoulders, and keep reading gossip magazines in lines at stores about stars.
