emergency room ten

 

Nurse Sexicia Bimatar sat opposite me.

Her blouse tugged in intriguing directions.

Just like the blouse on Callie in George Lucas' original novelisation of his film Star Wars back in 1978 which by the way even as a twelve year old I liked a lot more than the movie itself.

Nurse Bim was speaking.

"Your bloods show... blah, blah, blah."

She asked me what I thought.

"Basically," I answered with some weariness, "you're telling me I'm a big fattie. Well no disrespect Nurse, but join the queue."

The nurse sighed deliciously.

You'd think I'd asked her for a ride and she wanted to let me down lightly.

"The doctor has asked me to suggest you take some medications," she said.

"I'd prefer to try natural methods," I told her.

She looked adorably doubtful, cf ride line.

Doctor Fortescue Smythe entered the room.

He was a young man of the male sexual gender sort of thing.

Nurse Bim moved off and bimmed around the office for a bit in a languid sensual, sexual, sylph like manner.

I realised the doctor was speaking.

"Now James," he said, "with your permission of course, I'll do a rectal exam."

I froze calmly.

I was like a deer on the Wicklow mountains who for the first time in his young carefree life of ogling women, scoffing pork chops and writing sublime elegaic poetry, is encountering local shootist Mugs Baines on one of his hunting expeditions up the mountains and doesn't realise yet that he's got nothing to worry about because Mugs is a lousy shot.

Something told me my chances were not as good as that deer's.

The doc couldn't miss my anus from close range.

They learn about these things at Med School.

The doctor sensed my hesitation.

"Of course, the rectal examination can only take place with your consent," he informed me all businesslike.

I shook my head, chuckling gently a la Seinfeld.

"Doc, I don't see it happening," I told him.

"Well if some of the tests show what they might show, would your attitude change?" he shot back.

I was thinking: If he told me I had bubonic plague I'd be less worried than I am about a fucking rectal examination.

I decided to keep things on professional terms.

"I can not be rectally examined," I explained, "by anyone to whom I'm not married."

And somewhere the ghost of Woody Allen joined the ghost of Seinfeld in having a good larf.

Nurse Bim bimmed by like a butterfly in gentle flight and I thought briefly of the strange iconic vicissitudes of life which delineate the contours of my existence, to wit: if she had revealed a desire to examine my anus or indeed any other part of me, I did not doubt for a moment that I would have answered in the affirmative with optimistic gusto and elan.

an open letter to kim goldman

 

Dear Miss Goldman.

I note that you have recently produced a televisual documentary about the murder of your brother Ron and the culprit's evasion of justice which occurred in 1994.

I am informed that in your documentary you give a favourably disposed interview to the culprit in a different but equally vicious murder, that is to say you interview a murderess styling herself Amanda Knox who in 2007 in Italy with her accomplices mercilessly slaughtered Meredith Kercher in a satanic ritual and having first been convicted was ultimately released and allowed to evade justice four years later by a corrupt Italian appeal court Judge named Claudio Pratillo Hellman.

Kim Goldman, how could you after the way in which malign influencers within the American justice system allowed the murderer of your brother to go free, now give a favourable interview to the murderous satanist Amanda Knox who herself evaded justice for her murder of Meredith Kercher using similar methodologies and frivolous legalisms as OJ Simpson used to evade justice for his murder of your brother?

James Healy