The phone rings and the lady of the house answers, "Hello". "Mrs. Ward, please."
"Speaking." "Mrs. Ward, this is Doctor Jones at the Medical Testing Laboratory. When your doctor sent your husband's biopsy to the lab yesterday, a biopsy from another Mr. Ward arrived as well, and we are now uncertain which one is your husband's. Frankly, the results are either bad or terrible."
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Ward asks nervously.
"Well, one of the specimens tested positive for Alzheimer’s and the other one tested positive for AIDS. We can't tell which is your husband's."
"That's dreadful! Can't you do the test again?" questioned Mrs. Ward. "Normally we can, but Medicare will only pay for these expensive tests one time."
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" "The people at Medicare recommend that you drop your husband off somewhere in the middle of town. If he finds his way home, don't sleep with him.
At a nursing home in Victoria, a group of Senior Citizens was sitting around talking about their ailments:
"My arms are so weak I can hardly lift this cup of coffee," said one.
"Yes, I know. My cataracts are so bad I can't even SEE my coffee," replied another.
"I can't turn my head because of the arthritis in my neck," said a third, to which several nodded weakly in agreement.
My blood pressure pills make me dizzy," another went on.
"I guess that's the price we pay for getting old," winced an old man as he slowly shook his head.
Then there was a short moment of silence.
"Well, it's not that bad," said one woman cheerfully. "Thank God we all can still drive!"
Where the *bloody hell* is my bum washer??!! Ayyo rama! With all due respect to Rama, Vishnu, Shiva, Ayyappa, Ishwar Allah tere nam, I know You're sitting there with serene expressions thinking "don't take My name" but I really am missing my bum washer...
Context of rant: I am in USA. Amreeka. States. Recently dearly departed from beloved motherland. Perhaps I'm a tad tipsy, perhaps gastronomically satisfied, or perhaps just answering the random daily call. I waltz into the public restroom, nod appreciatively at the smooth chrome latch on the toilet door, the sparkling white tile work, and god-golly-gosh even the floors are dry. This is a toilet hand crafted in heaven I tell you. The porcelain winks at me and I obediently sit. The time has come, and I approach with trust; opening heart and sphincter to the world.
Upon completion of said project I reach back to the wall on my right, pat around for a bit, and encounter nothing but tile. Ah, everything is flipped here in Oosaa I think to myself, see they even drive on the right (alias wrong) side of the road. I reach backward to my left smiling at my own stupidity. Still nothing!
My hand expects to grasp a nozzle. With one smooth motion sling the flexible hose off the wall-hook and squeeze the familiar chrome contraption. A cool smooth jet of fresh water to do the needful in ridding me once and for all of my fecal sins. But all I get is cold white flat tile... Horrified, I whip my head around first left then right and all I see is the lonely toilet paper roll, like a thorn stuck in my side.
I feel so vulnerable, tender, violated, with my pants around my ankles, bony knees shivering in the night. Where the BLOODY HELL is my bum washer??!!!