28 March 2006

Chapter 4. We break fast at the hospital

Hospital cooking, we decided, had a bad rap. To be sure, it was difficult to identify what some of the grub (it might have been grubs for all we knew) but it was far superior to dodgy fish-paste sandwiches, catfish sushi and the well fermented sheep’s milk gorgonzola the hospital staff had disposed of. We also could drink as much fountain soda as we wished.

Well, teenagers Vs. Free soda; not really a fair match, though the soda put up a valiant fight. However, pretty soon we had to get rid of it. We got up to go to the bathroom, and damn me if everyone didn’t follow us.


Now, I don’t have a bashful bladder. I’m male and that makes the whole world my bathroom. It’s one of the perks that we get to offset longer female lifespan, male pattern baldness and those burdensome karmic mortgages called “kids” that keep saying things like “Dad, do you have two tens for a five?”, “What note from the principal?”, “I think I’m going to be sick!” and “Urrrrp! What do you know? I was right! Sorry about the cat, your paper work and whatever is under your bed that is not the cat.”

Regardless of the world being our oyster, commode-wise, I must admit that we all had problems whizzing whilst wearing those posteriorally vented hospital gowns and having the entire schizophrenia ward as an audience.

“Puta Geriny!” one of them shouted.

Now, despite this apparently Spanish insult, urinal etiquette demands that the pissor must examine the tile immediately in front of his eyes as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. This prevents straying eyes and meandering streams. After all, no one wants a wet shoe or leg, especially if the pissee is the fellow next to you, and he just happens to be a very large Samoan. We strived to ignore them.

However, focusing on the tiles became increasingly difficult with the increasingly loud choruses of “PUTA-GERINY! PUTA-GERINY! PUTA-GERINY!” so I spun around and demanded to know what the hell they were talking about.

“You have 'Puta Geriny' written on your asses!” replied a spokesloon.

“Well, not really.” I began, “You see…”

“Oh yes you do!” interrupted the spokesloon “P-U-T-A, then on the next line, G-E-R then a wee, hairy asterisk, then I-N-Y. So I suppose it really ought to be pronounced ‘Puta ger*iny’ instead.”

I explained the whole “Put a Tiger in your Tank” debacle and noted that they could only see a portion of the message due to the hospital gowns. They seemed put-off.

The spokesloon turned away muttering to himself. “I told you, John, didn’t I?" he said "There are some real nut-jobs in this place!”


And that's the way I likes it.