At an early age, I became fascinated with Germany. It all began with German philosopher Christian Wolff, and his philosophical treatise, the “German Metaphysics”, or Vernünfftige Gedancken von Gott, der Welt und der Seele des Menschen, auch allen Dingen überhaupt.
No. Really, I was just intrigued that a country would build a wall dividing its capital city in half. On The Brady Bunch, Greg and Marcia hung a curtain between their two sides of the coveted attic bedroom they both wanted but this seemed much more sinister than that.
I remember watching a film about the Berlin Wall in 6th grade. It was a bleak, somber documentary about how everyone in the East wanted to come to the West but the Communist government in the East forbade defection. To prove their point, the film showed desperate people scrambling to the West. One woman crawled under the barbed wire and it caught on her sweater, exposing her bra. Once she was safely on the other side, the West Germans hugged and welcomed her, despite having just seen her rack. “Wow,” I thought. “Those West Germans sure are awesome. Their government must be outta sight.”
But East Germany was a pit of despair. Because I was 11 or 12, I assumed “Communist” and “Nazi” were basically the same thing. Shit, Russia was a communist country and they were fucking nuts! They made their people stand in line all day just for bread. In America, we could buy bread in, like, two minutes or something.
When the wall came down, Germany became far less interesting, unless you consider World War I and II interesting. But a few weeks ago, I got to thinking about North Korea and that crazy son-of-a-bitch, Kim Jong-Il.
I admit; I didn’t know much about North Korea—who does? All I knew was that Kim Jong-Il was a dictator who looked like the creepy kid in your biology lecture who would eventually bring a gun to class. Also, he made a pretty hilarious puppet in that Team America movie. Luckily, I have Netflix, so I decided to watch the National Geographic episode called Inside: North Korea. Super spy correspondent Lisa Ling traveled to The Dark Side posing as part of a film crew documenting an Indian doctor’s miraculous cataract surgery that would help over 1,000 people in North Korea recover their sight. But really, Lisa was there to uncover the mysteries of this dark, foreboding place.
It was an interesting documentary. I learned that all men in North Korea wear the same weird uniform that Kim Jong-Il wears. I learned that everywhere you go, there are pictures of the Great Leader, statues of the Great Leader, park benches he sat on in glass cases, etc. It’s clear that Kim Jong-Il is worshipped in North Korea. When patients regained their sight as a result of the eye surgery, they fell to their knees to thank The Great Leader but not the doctor. They seem to pray to him as others pray to God.
I decided I needed to figure out what the film was that I had watched in 6th grade about The Berlin Wall. I happen to be a champion Googler, so, I found it on YouTube pretty quick. It’s called The Wall and it was produced in 1962. The opening sequence features a group of young boys playing with a ball which bounces over the wall, to the other side. They stand, staring at the wall, their eyes full of fear.
“We ain’t never gonna get that goddamned ball back,” they must be thinking.
The rest of the film is narrated by a man whose entire family lives in East Berlin while he luxuriates in West Berlin. He communicates with them by waving and doing hand signals. We see a terrifying sequence of people jumping out of windows in a building that was half in West Berlin and half in East Berlin. One woman is even being held by Communists as she attempts to drop from a window. The music is dark and ominous as nameless, faceless Communists destroy people’s lives. And there it is, at 6:00 minutes in: people scrambling through barbed wire to the West as the music grows frantic.
Watching this film again, which is just over 9 minutes long, I was amazed at how different it seems now. Back then, I was terrified of East Germany. I thought of it like that pit in Return of the Jedi in which people are slowly digested over 1,000 years. Now, I see this film for what it truly was: propaganda.
If you have seen any of the German propaganda films about Jews made around WWII, you know how appalling they are. You can see them clearly as tools to insight hate for the Jewish community. But what’s propaganda and what’s fact? It’s hard to tell.
Propaganda is dramatic; it uses stark, uncomfortable, well-placed images and creepy music to make its point. In the 1980s, propaganda was everywhere. I knew nothing about the USSR and yet, I was afraid of it. Red Dawn is classic propaganda: the country is invaded by Russian, Cuban and Chinese armies and a group of uneducated hillbillies save us all from the Communists. The Children’s Story is a short film that was featured on television based on a short story about a classroom in an American school after a totalitarian government has taken over the United States. The new teacher tells the students that everything is going to be different now. Then she forces them to cut off pieces of the American flag. For many years, I remembered the giant scissors she made them use.
So I can’t help but wonder: how much of what we see about North Korea is designed to make us fear and hate the country, its people and its culture?
We hear a lot about Kim Jong-Il and most of it has us shaking our heads and saying, “That fool is cray-zee.” According to “sources” he has a bizarre obsession with rabbits; he once kidnapped a film director and his actress wife and forced them make communist propaganda films; he helicopters live lobsters to his armored train. It’s very possible that all the things said about him are true. But it’s also possible that it’s all lies, designed to make us believe that the spaceship that is North Korea is being driven by a madman.
And what’s the point of propaganda? To plant the seeds, to convince and to eventually justify. Justify sanctions, an invasion, a massive bombing, mass murder, etc. Because if we believe that North Korea is on the brink of all-out insanity, we won’t question it when our government decides to pull the trigger.
Of course, I’m a cynic. I don’t believe everything I see on the news. I thought the trial and execution of Sadaam Hussein went a little too quickly and smoothly. When it was announced that Osama bin Laden had been found, killed and very quickly disposed of at sea, I raised my eyebrow at Tom Brokaw. But my point is, just because our government tells us that something is real doesn’t mean it is real. Now that Kim Jong-Il has gone to that glorious rabbit farm in the sky, what will we be lead to believe about his son and successor?
This does not mean that corrupt, destructive governments do not exist. One thing I know for sure is that North Korea is no fan of the United States, and, because of their nuclear weapons and massive army, they are capable of massive chaos. But there was a North Korean man in the film who pretty much hit the nail on the head: when Lisa Ling asked him how Kim Jong-Il could defend his small country from the likes of a super power like the United States, he responded, “The United States has no idea how to deal with us.” He’s right. So we manage perception. The news in North Korea is all strictly controlled by the government. Those poor people don’t even know that Britney got engaged over the weekend. But how much of what we hear is exactly what our government wants us to hear? How much information is manipulated? And how many people are falling for it?
The Wall
James Clavell’s The Children’s Story (It’s in 3 parts and it’s not the best quality)
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
If I Were a Tyrannosaurus Rex
Writer Gene Marks recently published a blog post to Forbes.com titled, "If I Were a Poor Black Kid". The article is about what Gene Marks would do to change his situation if he was a poor black kid. Mr. Marks apparently decided to write the article after taking a moment to think about his kids and how they have more advantages than poor black kids in West Philadelphia. This is logical. I often think about what Ryan Gosling is doing and that usually prompts me to determine what I think he should be doing. (Me.)
Oh, guess what? Gene Marks is not a poor black kid. He is actually a middle aged white man.
I wonder if he was drinking a nice, hot cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend when he wrote this article. Perhaps he’d just had a few Kashi Go Lean waffles with just a spritz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I know that’s what I was doing when I settled into read his opinion of that which he knows nothing about.
Gene admits up front that he is not a poor black kid, which I already knew when I caught site of his easy-like-Sunday-morning picture. Gene looks like your Dad’s friend or the only male employee in the Human Resources department who occasionally has a socially awkward conversation with you in the break room. Harmless, friendly and somehow overtaken by a force that he feels bestowed him with the power to determine what poor black kids need to do.
Gene thinks they need to learn how to write code. I don’t know why; perhaps because people who can do those types of things make good money and money is apparently the key to shedding the label of “poor black kid.” Gene also says that if he were a poor black kid, he would strive to get the best grades possible because grades are the key to opportunity and opportunity is they key to success. Or learning how to write code is they key to opportunity...or success. I don't know.
Technology seems to be his main angle. And don't bother bringing up tales of limited access to technology. Gene would like us to know that he knows a few school teachers and those school teachers have told him that even the poorest schools have or can afford cheap computers and internet access nowadays. Incidentally, I don't invest in the stock market but I know some people who do, so when you're ready for that financial advice, you give me a call.
Gene goes on to list all the resources he would tap into if he were a poor black kid, like Google Scholar, Academic Earth and something called Project Gutenberg, which I can only assume is a task force designed to get Steve Gutenberg back into films as quickly as possible.
Then Gene lets us in on a little secret: private schools have scholarships. so. If you're a poor black parent who's spent the last few years strategizing about how to get your poor black kid into Exeter, worry no more. They have Poor Black Kid scholarships. What are you poor blck families waiting for?!
Overall, Gene Marks does exactly what you’d expect a white guy from the suburbs to do: he sweeps all the shit under the rug. “Poor black kids” becomes a one-dimensional category that seemingly has no reason for being poor and also no additional factors that might be preventing them from downloading Evernote. His “you can do it, kids” tone only proves that he has no fucking idea what the fuck he is talking about. None. Zero.
Now. Do I think being poor and black means you can’t succeed? Absolutely not. But do I think Gene’s paint-by-numbers advice makes any sense? No. I imagine Gene Marks has been to many cocktail parties and ended up in quiet discussions about how poor people of color really just need to stop complaining and make something of themselves. This isn’t new; conservatives have been saying this shit for years. Newt Gingrich just told America that he thinks poor kids should be required to get jobs so they learn some skills. Trust me—every white middle aged asshole in America thinks they know what’s best for poor black kids. Gene Marks is just another asshole.
But you know what? You make my job so easy. I don’t have to do or say anything; you do it all for me. And for that, I say thank you.
Oh, guess what? Gene Marks is not a poor black kid. He is actually a middle aged white man.
I wonder if he was drinking a nice, hot cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend when he wrote this article. Perhaps he’d just had a few Kashi Go Lean waffles with just a spritz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I know that’s what I was doing when I settled into read his opinion of that which he knows nothing about.
Gene admits up front that he is not a poor black kid, which I already knew when I caught site of his easy-like-Sunday-morning picture. Gene looks like your Dad’s friend or the only male employee in the Human Resources department who occasionally has a socially awkward conversation with you in the break room. Harmless, friendly and somehow overtaken by a force that he feels bestowed him with the power to determine what poor black kids need to do.
Gene thinks they need to learn how to write code. I don’t know why; perhaps because people who can do those types of things make good money and money is apparently the key to shedding the label of “poor black kid.” Gene also says that if he were a poor black kid, he would strive to get the best grades possible because grades are the key to opportunity and opportunity is they key to success. Or learning how to write code is they key to opportunity...or success. I don't know.
Technology seems to be his main angle. And don't bother bringing up tales of limited access to technology. Gene would like us to know that he knows a few school teachers and those school teachers have told him that even the poorest schools have or can afford cheap computers and internet access nowadays. Incidentally, I don't invest in the stock market but I know some people who do, so when you're ready for that financial advice, you give me a call.
Gene goes on to list all the resources he would tap into if he were a poor black kid, like Google Scholar, Academic Earth and something called Project Gutenberg, which I can only assume is a task force designed to get Steve Gutenberg back into films as quickly as possible.
Then Gene lets us in on a little secret: private schools have scholarships. so. If you're a poor black parent who's spent the last few years strategizing about how to get your poor black kid into Exeter, worry no more. They have Poor Black Kid scholarships. What are you poor blck families waiting for?!
Overall, Gene Marks does exactly what you’d expect a white guy from the suburbs to do: he sweeps all the shit under the rug. “Poor black kids” becomes a one-dimensional category that seemingly has no reason for being poor and also no additional factors that might be preventing them from downloading Evernote. His “you can do it, kids” tone only proves that he has no fucking idea what the fuck he is talking about. None. Zero.
Now. Do I think being poor and black means you can’t succeed? Absolutely not. But do I think Gene’s paint-by-numbers advice makes any sense? No. I imagine Gene Marks has been to many cocktail parties and ended up in quiet discussions about how poor people of color really just need to stop complaining and make something of themselves. This isn’t new; conservatives have been saying this shit for years. Newt Gingrich just told America that he thinks poor kids should be required to get jobs so they learn some skills. Trust me—every white middle aged asshole in America thinks they know what’s best for poor black kids. Gene Marks is just another asshole.
But you know what? You make my job so easy. I don’t have to do or say anything; you do it all for me. And for that, I say thank you.
Friday, December 2, 2011
And you will know my name is the lord when I pee all over your waiting room
I’ve had my fair share of health issues: deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary emboli, diabetes, or as Wilford Brimley would say, dia-beet-us. I have more scar tissue on my arms than I have veins you can get anything out of. I am a seasoned, leathery doctor’s office cowboy.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
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