I am bored spitless and about to pass out from inactivity. Finished my book, dammit. Nothing is worse than finishing the book hours before you are finished waiting. Wonder if the gift shop has any books that I could stomach?
And Mr. Couth the Caveman is grating on my last. fricken'. nerve.
Up until now I have been highly entertained by Mr. Couth the Caveman. He's loud. He's proud. And he's an idiot. His father is in ICU for some as-yet undiagnosed disease/infection. Mr. CtC and 12 to 57 of his immediate family members are here around the clock, taking turns infecting the ICU with red-necked germs. Right at the moment, there is a rousing roundtable discourse on the subject of who the hell thought it was a good idea to bring Daddy's glasses. There is the "it's good to be prepared/he might need them" camp versus the "what the hell is he gonna be reading/he ain't even conscious" camp.
Mr. CtC was wearing a faded read t-shirt emblazoned with a cartoon caveman when I saw him yesterday. It was highly fitting, I thought. While we, and several members of my parent's church, were here waiting on the surgery yesterday morning, a debate raged over what could be the cause of the patriarch's mysterious illness.
Jane, a nice, quiet, church lady who shares my love of one-liners and eavesdropping, and I were both almost injured by this debate. It seems we were both eavesdropping when someone mentioned something akin to Oedipus. Our eyes locked over the table and we tried not to gape open-mouthed at their group. See, Mr. CtC is one of those people who has had or knows all about any disease known to man or beast. I thought I would pass out from suppressed mirth when he said:
"Oedipus syndrome! Oh yeah, I had that once!"
I am not making this up, people. I swear to God his next statement was:
"It was such a violent case, the doctor's couldn't do a thing with me. Hell, I thought I'd never get over that. That Oedipus syndrome is some kind of bad, let me tell ya whut!"
I thought I was gonna hurt myself bad, trying not to roll on the floor. Jane seemed to be similarly affected.
This morning when we arrived, Mr. CtC was here again, sporting another faded red t-shirt, sans caveman. I side stepped him, no small feat requiring more walking than you might think, as I headed for the stairwell. I smiled as I went past. He needed no more encouragement and started speaking.
"Tired of waiting on these elevators are ya? Me too. They're too damn slow. They got six of 'em and only twos of 'em are workin', I tell ya whut." He was now following me down the stairwell. I was saved from replying by the ringing of his cell phone. He said:
(You know this isn't going to be good. Why are you still reading?)
(Look away, I tell ya! Look away!)
"Howdy! Yeah, he's doin' a little better this mornin'. He ain't ate nuthin' but he still managed to drop a deuce on 'em!"
Yup. How long did it take YOU to figure out what he meant by that?
This is why I'm in the waiting room. Thanks for all your prayers.