Post Number Twenty Two


For several days (perhaps more) I drifted in and out of unconsciousness– which sounds like the opposite of what folks normally drift in and out of (i.e. NON-unconsciousness). But I decided way back when I first began this thought-loose ‘n’ fancy-free life o’ driftin’ that I should lie low in the land of unconsciousness for a bit longer. Mainly because I wanted to postpone getting the ambulance fare.

Why oh why did my cock not voip a taxi instead??

Would’a been heaps less expensive AND much easier to run from when it stopped (although, on the down side, running away from a taxi fare is {usually} something done best when you’re not drifting in and out of unconsciousness).

Anyway, I was in that “hospital” bed, evading my fare (by not being fully alive) and casually drifting (like I said) for a quantity of days we might reasonably guess-timate as being “several”. Furthermore, I had the mandatory tube in my arm to keep me fed. And yet because there are so few taste-buds in a person’s inner elbow, I found the “hospital” food was… well, it was a bit bland, really. Which gave me another good reason for choosin’ to stay unconscious. Y’see, while my conscious inner elbow couldn’t work up the enthusiasm for “hospital” food, my UN-conscious inner elbow converted the flavours of the toob-food into the finest of all brainwave brecky fare: COMA TOAST.

NOTE: I suppose you’re wondering why I keep using “sarquotes” around the word “hospital” (thusly). It’s because it appeared (at the time) (and in hindsight) that I may not have actually been in a “hospital” at all. Several clues told me so:

  • Clue Number One– A Public Hospital would’ve kicked me out ages ago, conscious or not;
  • Clue Number Two– Every time I tried adjusting my “hospital” bed, using the remote control, the cheap T.V in the corner of the room changed channels;
  • Clue Number Three– The abovementioned room which contained the equally abovementioned T.V looked like a storage shed;
  • Clue Number Four– The (frequently) abovementioned “hospital” bed was almost certainly a futon. Which smelled of Bong Water.

Then there were the trolleys and the dollies and the pulleys (and whatever else you need for hauling stuff) in the corner. Last– and perhaps damning-est of all– was the way the “ambulance” (note the sarquotes) had the words:




on the side. Oh, and it also looked like a truck. And, of course, I probably should also mention that the feeding tube in my arm was green and thick and thus had a strong resemblance to a garden hose. And the plastic plasma-drip thing looked as if it were full of mashed potato. But when DOCTOR LEIGH showed his jubilant face, he cheerfully explained it wasn’t “mashed potato” at all, per se, but rather Cream of Toast.

So! My inner elbow had (and has) a much more sophisticated palate than either one of us ever knew– which means the coma toast never just popped up in my imagination, but was instead a genuine fungible, slipping past the daily grind of getting chewed (or mulled up ‘n’ smoked) and rushing straight into my bloodstream, no questions asked. There was, however, one question that needed asking– and soon.

“Doctor Leigh,” is how I began that question. “Why is your Medical Clinic in a furniture storing shed?”

“Oh, yair?” began his defiant reply. “Then why is you mouth TALK and your elbow CHEWING, whah? You got no table manner or WHAH?”

While it’s true the Doctor barked words of great politeness, I needed (at the time) not “words”, but answers (even im-polite ones). And so I said my question again. He sighed and replied he was in a “tlansition phase”, tlansforming from a furniture removalist into a Doctor in the same way that a tadpole changes into a toadstool. But while I could see the vague family resemblance between a cute little fishy-type thing and a fungi, I could not see the connection between what Leigh was and what he was becoming.

“It belly simple,” he explained. “As a doctor I remove many thing. Mole. Kidney. Unwanted hair. Furniture. The lot.”

“Can you…” (I discreetly enquired) “… remove a pretty pink ribbon from an ex-gigolo’s cock?”

“Many, MANY time!” the Scotsman cried. “That my number one specialty.”

“Well, then,” I said. “Perhaps you’d care to–”

“UH-UH-UH!” interrupted Leigh. “Already done.”

At which he now held up the somewhat flyblown ribbon for my approval. And, verily, I did approve. Then when I took a peep under the sheet where my cock was hangin’ out these days, my approval rating SOARED. For what I saw thereunder was a fit and healthy-lookin’ todger (mine) sporting his favourite reading monocle (because he only has one eye) and merrily flicking through a (very small) newspaper (“small” because apparently the plastic shrink-wrap the paper was delivered in was so tight it shrunk the paper, too. Or so my dick told me).

“How did you..?” I semi-wondered, before the Medico cut me short by holding up a pair of scissors. Of course! (I thought.) Why didn’t I think of endangering my penis arteries by wielding a sharp object near them?

Perhaps it’s because I’m… slightly less of a doctor… than Doctor Leigh ever was.

Anyway, the doc-of-the-cock told me that once I’d finished my coma toast I should collect his “bee-eye-double-elle” (Yep. Another one o’ those) and leave. But before I looked at the high cost of not dying, I had one more question for him: How did the Removalist Guys who freighted me there intercept my emergency phone call? The doctor said they didn’t. He said they were looking for a house on my street when a closely-connected pair of lads told them if anyone around those parts needed “removal”, it was me.

“What makes you think those lads were closely connected?” I wondered.

“Because,” the Medico said, “they were” (brace yourself) “JOINED AT THE NOSE-HAIRS!!”

And there were (and are) only TWO lads (minimum) in my neighbourhood who fit that description.



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