“I’d go back to Ellis Island and demand a refund.”
I want to speak to a nurse who has ever been responsible for recording the newborn baby’s name from the birth mother. Are they allowed to suggest spelling if the parents do not, or are they obligated (by Hippocratic Oath or something) to hear out the choice of the parent?
Semaj told me his mother wanted to name him James, but she was dyslexic. That would lead me to believe that she wrote the name on the birth certificate, or that she wrote it out the way she wanted it prior to her arrival at the hospital.
Furkat told me his name was Russian for pussy-fur. That sounds believable, looking at it, but who would believe a mother would do such a thing?
Hair’l told me his mother was a crack ho, and did not know how to spell. This name makes me wonder why the nurse allowed it and did not just tell the woman that it should be spelled Harold. The nurse allowed the mother to doom the poor child to a life time of unemployment and ridicule.
Once in a great while, one of them finds success, and now there will be a bazillion baby boys named and spelled Dwyane.
I have not even begun to poke fun at nicknames. Mississippi was nick-named because that is where he was from. I never knew what part, but it had to be from wherever they grew the largest, stupidest, redneck hillbillies. Mississippi was growing tired of Nebraska, and vice versa. He was finished with his sentence in Nebraska, but was being held on a detainer so he could serve some additional Federal time in his home state. All he was waiting for was a ride from the appropriate transportation authorities, and they were taking their sweet-ass time getting here. The cost of the Nebraska per diem rate they were being charged to continue to house him was not reason to get in a hurry.
“Hey Batiste, I think I seen me a bear last night.”
“There ain’t been any bear around here since Caesar was a road guard.”
“No silly, I was dreamin’.” “Well, wake the fuck up.”
“If Mississippi don’t come get me soon, I’m gonna have to start acting a fool.”
“Will you please inform us when you begin to do that? Otherwise, I’m not sure we’ll be able to tell the difference.”
“They said they would be here last month. What the fuck is takin’ them so long?”
“You’re a victim of optimistic scheduling.”
“My lawyer is trying to act like a judge. She is not very experienced, so she’ll have to get her knees dirty.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, it’s not who you know, it’s who you…” “What do you mean?”
“She’ll have to learn to speak into the microphone properly.”
“What does that have to do with getting your knees dirty? Is the mike stand broke?”
You might think that I have some perspective on the rhetorical question, “Knowing what you know now, would you go back and change anything?”
“Hey, who’s that? Didn’t she used to work for Corrections?”
“Butterface.”
“Butterface?”
“Yah, everything looks good, but-her-face! She got walked out for planning to fuck. She even went to a pharmacist for the pill. Said she wanted to control her period.”
“She could just as easily have gone to the pharmacy and said, “Give me the pill, I’m gonna fuck.” Every pharmacist in the world knew the long list of excuses. I mean, why be coy?”
“Her Indian-name is Two-Butts. She’s got a very large butt in the back where it belongs, but she got a butt in the front where it don’t as well.”
A female case manager, Jan Liang, was fat and ugly, but she would lay down with her legs in the air, and wrap them around any inmate that would join her in the chemical closet. That description needs some clarification: Jan was not quite three bills, and she had some redeeming qualities. She would also occasionally get on top. She would bring in a dozen Krispy Kremes and say, “Don’t even look at them.”
Once upon a time, Jan lived in a climate controlled storage facility for $50 a month. As long as she had a place to put her shit, and nobody checked on her, she could work and hang out at the bars, going home with whomever she pleased, or got the best offer from, she did not have to spend much time in her Army cot at the storage facility.
Jan always wore silk boxers and would say, “Silk boxers are not underwear, they are only-wear, designed for quick removal.” Inexplicably, there was no shortage of women in Jan’s category. She hit on everybody, including me.
“Where were you the last few days, laying in bed sick, or hoping to get lucky?”
“I took a few days off for a family funeral.” “Oh yah, who died?”
“My grandmother on my mother’s side. She was my last living grandparent.”
“Were you close?”
“Nah. My wife liked her because she was rich. She always sent her birthday cards and shit like that.”
“Do you think it’ll help with an inheritance?”
“Fuck no. That old lady had Alzheimer’s so bad, she couldn’t remember her own name. She’d never remember to favor anybody. Her brother’s got it too. In fact when he showed up at the funeral with his wife, we had a little conversation as I was helping them out of the car. He says, “Who are you?”
I tell him, “We’re related. Your sister is my grandmother.”
He says, “My sister…is she here?”
I tell him, “She not only here, she’s the reason we’re here.”
Then he says, “She’s your grandma huh? How’s that workin’ out for ya?”
I guess he knew her well, and was subtly (not only subconsciously, but unconsciously) hinting that she could make things difficult at times.
Then he gets a visual on two of my three brothers, and gets a brief recollection, “Well, I see three of you, was the other one arrested?”
“I went to a family funeral recently, but I’m not sure if I can explain my relationship to the deceased without a family tree.”
“Is it that complicated?” “My biggest thing is…”
I am silently thinking, “Your butt?”
“The man was my step-mom’s uncle, but he was divorced from her mom. The only reason my mother wanted to go was so she wouldn’t lose contact with her cousin. They had become very good friends, and they had slept together on occasion when they were little. I guess they had their first game of doctor together.”
“Are you sure you should be telling me all this?” “My other biggest thing is…”
I am silently thinking, “Your gut?”
“I was reunited with my half-step-sister there, because my biological father left when I was just 10-years old, and my step-dad and mom divorced just so he could get Medicaid. Sometimes I’m not sure I can follow it myself.”
“That’s not a family tree, that’s a bush. In fact, it is multiple intertwined bushes. Jan, you have a sculpted family hedge.”
“That bothers me because I feel very spiritual.” “You’re not spiritual, you’re just high.”
“I used to bang the shit out of her…well actually; I just dated her, and wanted to bang the shit out of her.”
“You fuckin’ Marines. Lies just come flying out of your mouth and then you back peddle. Think before you open your pie-hole so the filling doesn’t fall out.”
I want to speak to a nurse who has ever been responsible for recording the newborn baby’s name from the birth mother. Are they allowed to suggest spelling if the parents do not, or are they obligated (by Hippocratic Oath or something) to hear out the choice of the parent?
Semaj told me his mother wanted to name him James, but she was dyslexic. That would lead me to believe that she wrote the name on the birth certificate, or that she wrote it out the way she wanted it prior to her arrival at the hospital.
Furkat told me his name was Russian for pussy-fur. That sounds believable, looking at it, but who would believe a mother would do such a thing?
Hair’l told me his mother was a crack ho, and did not know how to spell. This name makes me wonder why the nurse allowed it and did not just tell the woman that it should be spelled Harold. The nurse allowed the mother to doom the poor child to a life time of unemployment and ridicule.
Once in a great while, one of them finds success, and now there will be a bazillion baby boys named and spelled Dwyane.
I have not even begun to poke fun at nicknames. Mississippi was nick-named because that is where he was from. I never knew what part, but it had to be from wherever they grew the largest, stupidest, redneck hillbillies. Mississippi was growing tired of Nebraska, and vice versa. He was finished with his sentence in Nebraska, but was being held on a detainer so he could serve some additional Federal time in his home state. All he was waiting for was a ride from the appropriate transportation authorities, and they were taking their sweet-ass time getting here. The cost of the Nebraska per diem rate they were being charged to continue to house him was not reason to get in a hurry.
“Hey Batiste, I think I seen me a bear last night.”
“There ain’t been any bear around here since Caesar was a road guard.”
“No silly, I was dreamin’.” “Well, wake the fuck up.”
“If Mississippi don’t come get me soon, I’m gonna have to start acting a fool.”
“Will you please inform us when you begin to do that? Otherwise, I’m not sure we’ll be able to tell the difference.”
“They said they would be here last month. What the fuck is takin’ them so long?”
“You’re a victim of optimistic scheduling.”
“My lawyer is trying to act like a judge. She is not very experienced, so she’ll have to get her knees dirty.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, it’s not who you know, it’s who you…” “What do you mean?”
“She’ll have to learn to speak into the microphone properly.”
“What does that have to do with getting your knees dirty? Is the mike stand broke?”
You might think that I have some perspective on the rhetorical question, “Knowing what you know now, would you go back and change anything?”
“Hey, who’s that? Didn’t she used to work for Corrections?”
“Butterface.”
“Butterface?”
“Yah, everything looks good, but-her-face! She got walked out for planning to fuck. She even went to a pharmacist for the pill. Said she wanted to control her period.”
“She could just as easily have gone to the pharmacy and said, “Give me the pill, I’m gonna fuck.” Every pharmacist in the world knew the long list of excuses. I mean, why be coy?”
“Her Indian-name is Two-Butts. She’s got a very large butt in the back where it belongs, but she got a butt in the front where it don’t as well.”
A female case manager, Jan Liang, was fat and ugly, but she would lay down with her legs in the air, and wrap them around any inmate that would join her in the chemical closet. That description needs some clarification: Jan was not quite three bills, and she had some redeeming qualities. She would also occasionally get on top. She would bring in a dozen Krispy Kremes and say, “Don’t even look at them.”
Once upon a time, Jan lived in a climate controlled storage facility for $50 a month. As long as she had a place to put her shit, and nobody checked on her, she could work and hang out at the bars, going home with whomever she pleased, or got the best offer from, she did not have to spend much time in her Army cot at the storage facility.
Jan always wore silk boxers and would say, “Silk boxers are not underwear, they are only-wear, designed for quick removal.” Inexplicably, there was no shortage of women in Jan’s category. She hit on everybody, including me.
“Where were you the last few days, laying in bed sick, or hoping to get lucky?”
“I took a few days off for a family funeral.” “Oh yah, who died?”
“My grandmother on my mother’s side. She was my last living grandparent.”
“Were you close?”
“Nah. My wife liked her because she was rich. She always sent her birthday cards and shit like that.”
“Do you think it’ll help with an inheritance?”
“Fuck no. That old lady had Alzheimer’s so bad, she couldn’t remember her own name. She’d never remember to favor anybody. Her brother’s got it too. In fact when he showed up at the funeral with his wife, we had a little conversation as I was helping them out of the car. He says, “Who are you?”
I tell him, “We’re related. Your sister is my grandmother.”
He says, “My sister…is she here?”
I tell him, “She not only here, she’s the reason we’re here.”
Then he says, “She’s your grandma huh? How’s that workin’ out for ya?”
I guess he knew her well, and was subtly (not only subconsciously, but unconsciously) hinting that she could make things difficult at times.
Then he gets a visual on two of my three brothers, and gets a brief recollection, “Well, I see three of you, was the other one arrested?”
“I went to a family funeral recently, but I’m not sure if I can explain my relationship to the deceased without a family tree.”
“Is it that complicated?” “My biggest thing is…”
I am silently thinking, “Your butt?”
“The man was my step-mom’s uncle, but he was divorced from her mom. The only reason my mother wanted to go was so she wouldn’t lose contact with her cousin. They had become very good friends, and they had slept together on occasion when they were little. I guess they had their first game of doctor together.”
“Are you sure you should be telling me all this?” “My other biggest thing is…”
I am silently thinking, “Your gut?”
“I was reunited with my half-step-sister there, because my biological father left when I was just 10-years old, and my step-dad and mom divorced just so he could get Medicaid. Sometimes I’m not sure I can follow it myself.”
“That’s not a family tree, that’s a bush. In fact, it is multiple intertwined bushes. Jan, you have a sculpted family hedge.”
“That bothers me because I feel very spiritual.” “You’re not spiritual, you’re just high.”
“I used to bang the shit out of her…well actually; I just dated her, and wanted to bang the shit out of her.”
“You fuckin’ Marines. Lies just come flying out of your mouth and then you back peddle. Think before you open your pie-hole so the filling doesn’t fall out.”
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