From the nuthouse to the Nuthouse. Pt. 1 (standard:humor, 1119 words) [1/2] show all parts
Author: Greggo	Updated: Jun 20 2002	Views/Reads: 3392/2199	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Just a guy in a mental ward with his own ideas about what's wrong with the outside world. Just one part so far. Feedback welcome!

From the Nuthouse to the Nuthouse. Pt. 1 

Everyone everywhere, except for me, is nuts! Don't deny it: I know it's
true! 

There's a man down the hall from my room. He sings in the shower, which
wouldn't be too bad, except that he sings with a woman's voice.  I'll 
hear Anne Murray songs during breakfast and then I get the Barbara 
Streisand at night. The man is almost sixty years old so you'd think 
maybe that his voice would change. I ran into him once, his name is Mr. 
Gothin but you must call him ‘sir', and he asked me what kind of music 
I listened to. And I told him too. In the morning I love to listen to 
Anne Murray's favorite songs o' the shower and near bedtime I am 
blessed with the live Barbara music hour! Mr. Gothin called me an ass 
and strode off. "Sir", I called after him, "maybe tonight you could 
open up the Janice Joplin vault or somethin' new", but that made him 
slam a door. Maybe I am an ass... Now Mr. Gothin refuses to look at me 
and I'm pretty sure that the volume has gone way up in his apartment. 

I guess I cannot expect too much from these kinds of people. They are
somewhat primitive so that's why they're in this hospital. I, on the 
other hand, am so un-primitive that I'm better than everyone in here 
is, but that's why I'm in the Londonderry Institute for the Mentally 
Disabled, along with the rest of them. I tend to consider myself 
‘mentally dislabelled' but my nurses don't think that's funny. They act 
prudish and smart but they're the same as anyone in here; they just 
don't know it yet! 

The reason I came here was so that I didn't have to pay alimony to my
ex-wife. I declared myself too sophisticated to succumb to the simple 
monetary system that the ‘outside' people rely upon. So I quit my job. 
So she took me to court. I showed up to court with no clothes on as I 
also don't believe in the slightly more complex system of dress that 
the ‘outside' people have adapted. The judge, without sympathy, 
declared a psychological evaluation for myself. I suggested that he 
make my ex-wife undergo a similar evaluation, citing an unnatural lack 
of emotion, mainly in the bedroom. The judge found me in contempt and I 
couldn't have agreed with him more. Some doctor found me unfit for 
society. I found society unfit for that doctor however it seems that 
you have to go to university for years before anybody listens to what 
you have to say. 

There is a nurse here, we call he scary Mary, who makes me wear my
clothes now. You wouldn't want to piss off scary Mary who weighs about 
220 pounds. Her face looks like that of a menstruating pit-bull, which 
I imagine to be a very displeased-looking dog. Her hands, which must 
weigh about 20 pounds each, are tools that you don't want near you, 
especially when you're not wearing any clothes; you can't trust what 
those hands might grasp and crush with brute force: I don't take any 
chances. 

Other than scary Mary and her cult of white-wearing peons, there aren't
any women on our floor, which makes for some interesting nightly noises 
coming from the other rooms down my hallway. Some of these crazies 
actually think they're in an all-boys school because they experiment 
with each other like you wouldn't believe; I think it's because they 
have an unlimited supply of morphine and can dissolve any traces of 
pain from their sexual escapades. On nights like those when the inmates 
are especially randy I can't be more pleased to hear Barbara's voice 
emanating between loud grunting noises of pleasure and pain. It often 
takes the nurses a few minutes to find the loud disgusting culprits but 
by then they usually have finished. You get used to these kinds of 
things when you're in this hospital, heck; if you didn't you would 
probably go crazy. 

I have a complete distrust of paper. That's what I told my doctor when
he introduced himself three years ago. I meet with Doctor Darren once a 
day during the week. In one-hour sessions five times a week he tries to 
wander inside my mindset. Just because he has gone to school far longer 
than most people he figures that he has a right to dive into my own 
personal hiding place. The outside people give pieces of paper (they 
call them diplomas) that makes some people have more rights than 
others, not bad for a democracy in which everybody is equal. My doctor 
was given the right to pry the deepest memories from me and then go and 
discuss them amongst his pals, perhaps over a few drinks. And then, if 


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