Out of the Frying Pan

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“Hello Mr. Lebherz, follow me.  I am Dr. Ping Pyong.”  I shook his hand, entered his office.  My girlfriend came behind me which made me worry that I might have to take my clothes off with the lights on. 

“I am chief of Kidney Transplant surgery. Could you loosen your pants and lie back on the examining table?  Do you have diabetes?” he asked.  Yes, for 25 years, for many years, my blood sugar was out of control.  I still eat cookies.

He said he needed to check the pulse in my pelvis.  He stuck his hand in my pants and lay it flat right next to my special parts.  I told my girlfriend to close her eyes, which the doctor found amusing.  I made another astute comment that I thought my pulse was in my wrist.  I looked at my girlfriend and rolled my eyes as if I was enjoying this.  Unfortunately my body is big, my special part is not.  If he moved his hand just slightly to the right he would feel this.  I broke out into a sweat.  He removed his hand and with a frown said your pulse is weak.  Strangely, my girlfriend said she already knew this.  She was frowning too.  I just can’t win these days.

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Life Goes On, Thank God

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Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I go into a room with 32 recliners.  The people in these chairs are missing feet and legs, and some are missing their minds.  Some are old and near death.  You sit, a technician sticks inch long needles in a surgery enhanced vein in your arm.  A machine runs all the blood in your body seven times through a man-made kidney.  After four hours you can go home, dizzy, drained, and thinking fuzzy until the next morning. You have to accept this.  Some people give up and stop treatments.  They will die within weeks.  I thought life would be unbearable.  I am actually happier now than before dialysis.  I enjoy the small things in life more. Sunshine, my dogs’ wagging tails, my girlfriend’s laughter, a couple strong drinks, good music…the list goes on.  Life goes on, thank God.

God Damn That Hurts

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Eman is black, sixteen-years-old with Downs Syndrome.  When they stick the dialysis needles in his arm he yells out, “God damn that hurts!”

We would all yell that if it weren’t for our pride.  He yells this out once for each needle, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  I know because I sit across the room from him.  The nurses tease him.  He yells back, “Shut up, Grandma!” 

He wants to marry Beyoncé.  He likes the Cowboys.  He once groped the red headed nurse’s rear end and she had to pry herself loose. He does things I would like to do.  God damn that hurts.

How to Quit

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I’ve worked over forty-nine jobs in the Frederick County area.  That’s given me a wide range of work experiences, especially how to quit and how to get fired.  I now command salaries of up to nine dollars an hour.

At my last job, my boss, Jena, a rather attractive woman asked me to please get to work. I winked at her and said, “Jena, there is nothing wrong with getting a little behind.”
That was my last day there.

I have sales experience in jewelry, real estate, fire alarms, frozen steaks, furniture, and marijuana. None of these jobs was lucrative, but selling marijuana helped me to get laid once.

One of my qualities is that I take jobs that require mindless labor and no responsibility, and focus on getting to know my co-workers.  On the clock, I’m a real people person.

My main requirement now is that I work with women. My motto has always been: Work hard, play hard, but don’t play hard to get.  I’ve always appreciated promiscuous female co-workers–without them, I wouldn’t have had nearly as much sex on the job.

I’m currently seeking employment as a Mystery Shopper inside dialysis clinics.  Keeping a close eye on nurses comes naturally to me.

When I look back at my past, I can see that my future has to be better. It can’t be any worse.  It is always darkest just before the light.

Here a Nip, There a Tuck

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Since I am always in the doghouse with my girlfriend, I would like to find a plastic surgeon to marry.  A nip here, a tuck there, I could look twenty years younger. Then a kidney transplant, and replace other organs that  have taken a beating. I’ll be good as new and ready for sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

At Least There Are Nurses

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Dialysis changes you both physically and mentally.  The vein in my left bicep has been altered to carry large amounts of blood. This is my access, or fistula. Before the nurses stick needles in my arm, I like to ask them if they think my fistula makes my muscle look bigger.  The nursing staff at dialysis, mostly young women, have helped me mentally. Sometimes instead of reading or watching TV, I just stare at the nurses.  I always tell them when I am leaving that it was nice looking at you.

Smoke and Needles

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She was getting ready to stick big needles in my arm.  She asked me if I had smoked pot before I came in. She said, “Your eyes are bloodshot, you smell like pot, and you haven’t stopped talking since you sat down.”  I asked if she also worked for the FBI or the city police.  I told her nicely that what I do in the privacy of my own home is confidential.  She stuck the needles in, and I think it may have hurt more than it normally does.
I think more clearly when I am stoned. The trouble is, a good buzz lasts me, at the most, a half hour.  Then I revert back to my quiet, slow thinking self.