I Forgot Who I Had Breakfast With This Morning

Killer has no idea what is going on

I have mentioned that my time is drawing to an end here in Sacramento. After leaving so many hospitals, I have become immune to the sadness of goodbye. Yes, I have worked closely with you for six months. Yes, I am an awesome guy. No, I don't need a tissue.

The people I work with are always saddened at my departure, but I, being an ass, am usually just wanting to get away clean, with little or no emotional attachment. They give me their phone numbers, tell me to call them, ask me to send them postcards, and inform me, "you'll be back. You'll miss us too much."

Little do they know, in a few hours, I will have forgotten the vast majority of their names.

I don't know if it is a deep emotional protective mechanism provided by my fragile psyche, or if maybe I am really just a complete asshole; regardless, I slip away into the night, unfazed and unaffected by the parting of ways.

Sorry, whatever your name was. Life is cruel sometimes.

I was taken to breakfast this morning by a group of coworkers. They wanted to spend one last moment together before I leave. I was touched. I rather would have gone to bed, but I felt it necessary to give them one last chance to soak in the Killer goodness.

Unfortunately I was the only one at breakfast who was not Filipino. I don't begrudge the ethnic diversity of California, but it is less than exciting to sit and listen to a hour long debate about the pros and cons of buying a Toyota mini-van, especially when the entire discussion is in a language I don't speak.

The only Tagalog I know is in reference to my testicles, and due to poor designs by Toyota, that doesn't relate well to their mini vans.

Soon I will be free.

The End Is Nigh

Killer heads for the door.


I have a serious case of short-timer syndrome. This is a critical condition that is common among people who only have a few days left at a job. It is characterised by a severe lackadaisical attitude and frequent mutterings of, "I'll quit this shit-hole right now!" or "I'll burn this place to the ground."


It is not an uncommon disease, but I, being a person who can change hospitals several times a year, have it more often than others. Since I am usually very upbeat and humor laden, it disturbs my soon-to-be-ex coworkers very much.


I already want to be gone so bad my mind starts to play tricks on me. Tonight a lovely Filipina nurse approached me and innocently asked, "Would like to try one of my Filipino crackers?" My brain heard, "Shove these up your ass, Cracker!"


I immediately became enraged and picked up the small lady and flung her across the room, knocking over a gaggle of Hmong people who were there to visit their Grandfather. I did not really do that, but man, I wanted to.


I realized a Filipina would not know that she could refer to me as "cracker" and calmed down. I calmly accepted the Filipino cracker; it was delicious.


This condition is usually worse in the first few hours of my shift. I am freshly removed from my comfortable chair at home, where I was enjoying the back log of "Dirty Jobs" on my Tivo, so I really did not want to come to work. The fact that I only have three shifts left heightens any feelings of unhappiness and despair.


I arrive at work and they immediately tell me that I am going to have to work on a Medical floor tonight. I am an ICU nurse. I prefer my patients comatose and near death. It makes for a pleasant work environment when I can put on the Cartoon Network as I scramble around to keep someone alive. On a Medical floor a lot of the patients should be at home, and they don't want to be there any more than I do. Both patient and nurse have a palpable level of animosity towards each other; both feel it is the other's fault they are still there.


I enter the room. The patient, a very healthy appearing 68 year old man, is laying in bed watching an infomercial for the Ionic Breeze. I look at him. He looks at me. We both quickly surmise that the other does not want to be here. I check his vitals as he quietly stares at the television. "You know there is a "Futurama" marathon on the Cartoon Network." I inform him; to which her blandly responds, "I hate cartoons. Can you get me some fresh water?" I pick up his jug and walk out of the room muttering to myself, "I should just quit this place right now." I am pretty sure I heard him mutter to himself, "I should just leave this place right now."


It is ironic that we should be enemies. We actually have a lot in common. Neither of us wants to be here, and could leave if we really wanted to. I should just go back in there and tell him, "Get dressed were blowing this joint." I could give him a ride home.


If someone does not let me watch the Cartoon Network soon, I am going to quit this shit-hole.

Suicidal Ideations

Killer’s last thoughts (almost)

I might have mentioned an irrational dislike I have for a co-worker in the past. As a matter of fact, I might have written an entire post about it.

Tonight I was cornered by the above mentioned irrationally disliked coworker. It was obvious I was not busy, because I was sitting by myself, drinking some fresh brewed 100% Kona coffee (because that’s how I roll), with my feet propped up on the desk. I was contemplating the ease of my work night and enjoying the solitude when she suddenly appeared in front of me in her full manic glory.

Tonight she is wearing a disgustingly tight, sheer white t-shirt, lime green Capri pants, with a matching one inch stripe of lime green eyeliner above her eyes. She is very happy to see me and begins to tell me about how her and her husband just moved their travel trailer to a new mobile home park.

The following is my brain’s internal debate during what was very close to being the last five minutes of my life.

Oh shit! How did I not see her come in? I don’t think there is any way out of here. I could fake a seizure, but I might spill my coffee. This is 100% Kona damn it! I should just leap up and kill her right now. No, that would mean I would spend the rest of my life in prison and be stuck thinking about her forever.

What has she done with her makeup? It looks like the 80’s exploded in her face. This is too much. Screw me running; she is talking about her new trailer park. That makeup plus bragging about your luxurious new trailer park is stereotypical overload. I want to die.

Man, when she laughs it is like my ear drums are being gang raped by an angry group of bikers. I wonder if she would suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder if I pulled out a scalpel and sliced my wrists.

That t-shirt is so damn tight it’s as if she is wearing saran wrap. If I have to look at her boobs much longer I am going to swear off tits forever. There should be laws that if your nipples are lower than your belly button you should have to wear a sweater for the rest of your life. SHIT! I think she just caught me looking at her boobs, and she smiled. Now she is going to think I am ogling her cans. That does it, I have to die now. There is no other choice.

Okay, how can I do it? If I am going to take my own life, it had better be soon, she has not shut up about that damn trailer park. I was bluffing about cutting my wrists. I don’t have a scalpel on me. How about pulling the computer’s network cable up and wrapping it around my throat until I choke violently at her feet?

She’s a nurse damn it! She would probably drop down and revive me with CPR and mouth to mouth. THAT would be the perfect ironic twist to my suicide attempt. I kill myself to escape her, but am brought back to life only to find her lips locked with mine. I have to kill myself in a decisive, no retreat-no surrender type of way.

Okay, I lick my own hand, grab that spoon and cram it full force into the electrical outlet. Beautiful plan, if she tries to save me she will get fried as well. I just hope she doesn’t think I am licking my hand as sexual harassment. I wouldn’t want her suing my family posthumously.

Wait! Her phone is ringing. She has to go to the ER for an emergency. Relief! Reprieve! Rejoice! I am going to call my Mom immediately and tell her I love her. She almost lost a son tonight and she would never have known why. I want to run down the hall cheering like a mad man! Okay, Okay, you can stop licking your hand already; people are starting to stare.

Poop to Live, Live to Poop

Recently in the hospital:

An older lady is admitted into the ICU. She is very sick, and the prognosis is grim. She is on life support and clinging to life. The following is the conversation with her sixty-ish son. His Mother apparently had an obsession that has been passed along as a genetic trait.

Son: “What happens if my Mom has to…uh…you know…needs to… go to the bathroom?”

I knew what he was referring to, but there is no fun in a direct answer.

Me: “Oh, it won’t be a problem. She has a tube going into her bladder. All of her urine will drain out into this bag.”

Son: “That’s good, but I am more concerned about her…going…the other…way.”

Me: “Do you mean what if she has a bowel movement?”

Son: “Yes, she goes at least three times a day, and if she doesn’t she gets very, very anxious.”

Me: “A lot of older people have a preoccupation with staying regular. Does she take anything at home to help her go?”

Son: “Yes, she takes two stool softeners twice a day, a glass of Metamucil every morning, a couple of ex-lax around lunch, and if she doesn’t have a third by bed time, she will give herself an enema.”

Me: “Goodness, she is a busy lady. Does she have any other hobbies?”

Son: “She had an obstruction about ten years ago, and has been pretty strict on three times a day since.”

Me: “At the moment it is not going to be our focus, but I will keep an eye on it.”

Son: “She would want me to make sure she still went three times a day.”

Me: “She is not eating right now, so she might not have to go so often.”

Son: “She doesn’t eat much anyway, but she still goes three times a day.”

Me: “She MAKES herself go three times a day.”

Son: “Can you make her go three times a day?”

Me: “We could make her go non-stop, but it won’t be necessary.”

Son: “I would really appreciate it if she could go three times a day.”

Me: “I’ll see what I can do.”

Son: “When she goes, do you just pick her up and put her on the toilet?”

Me: “At the current time you Mother can not really tell me when she has to go. She will probably be incontinent and then we will clean her up.”

Son: “You mean she will just go in the bed?”

Me: “Probably.”

Son: “I don’t think she will want to do that.”

Me: “Unfortunately, you Mother is not in a condition to notice that right now. I am going to be focused on getting her better so she can get up to the toilet on her own again.”

Son: “She might seem like she is not really paying attention, but I bet she is still thinking about having her next bowel movement.”

Me: “We will keep her comfortable and do everything in our power to help her get better.”

Son: “If she has…uh…a bowel move…in the bed…who cleans it up?”

Me: “I do.”

Son: “Isn’t that disgusting?”

Me: “You get used to it.”

Son: “I can’t imagine.”

Me: “It’s a job.”

Son: “It seems like it would be cleaner just to pick her up and put her on the toilet.”

Me: “It seems that way, but it wouldn’t be.”

Son: “Okay, just think about it, and see what you can do to keep her going three times a day.”

Me: “I will do my best.”

He called me the next morning around four A.M., and the first thing he asked was not, “How is she doing?” Or “Is she awake yet?” But instead, “Did she have a…um…bowel movement?”

Great disappointment was noticed when I said no.

I could not stop wondering if the son was calling me from his own toilet. Like Mother like Son.

I Like My Ladies Limber and Under 90

Killer posts without restraint.

There comes a time in every nurse’s career when you are thankful for soft wrist restraints. They call them soft wrist restraints, because that makes it sound gentler when I tie up your Grandpa.

Doing this initiates a world of paperwork, so there needs to be a pretty good reason for strapping someone’s arms to the bed. Old people get confused at night when in a new environment; this can lead to pulling out IVs (bloody mess), pulling out breathing tubes (deadly mess), or yanking out a Foley catheter (OUCH! That guy just pulled a golf ball through his penis.)

Recently I had an adorable little old gal who was finally waking up enough to not be considered dead, but not awake enough to know that pulling out her feeding tube will only result in an uncomfortable cramming of a new tube up her nose. So to save her the agony of getting something crammed up her nose, again, I tied her hands down, but softly.

About an hour later, I looked in the room and she had pulled the tube out of her nose. I was flabbergasted. This lady is a little, gray haired Houdini, I thought to myself, as I tied her hands tighter. She yelled and cursed me as I shoved a stiff plastic tube up her nose.

Another hour passes and I peek into her room, she has pulled the tube out again. Flabbergasted is now an understatement. “How are you doing that?” I yell. She just looked at me and said, “Hooply dopple.” I can not really begin to understand what that means, but I hoped it meant, “I really don’t mind you shoving shit up my nose, so feel free to do it again.” Because, that is exactly what I did; after strapping her arms down like she was Hannibal Lector. She tried to bite me as the tube entered her nose.

I would like to say that solved the tube pulling epidemic, but thirty minutes later she was tube free and loving life. Her hands were still firmly strapped to her side, and the feeding tube was steadily leaking an unsavory tan liquid all over the floor. I wanted to duct tape her hands to the wall and staple the plastic tube to the inside of her left nostril. Instead I allowed my patience to shine through. I put special mittens on her hands, tied the mittens and her wrists to the bed, replaced the tube (to her dismay and loud protests), and taped the tube to her face with an entire roll of tape. I walked out of the room certain she would not get it again, but concerned the Board of Nursing would bust in any second and arrest me.

I also got all my paperwork, my charts, my book, a cup of coffee and decided I would not take my eyes off of this little, innocent, confused dame.

Fifteen minutes after I was settled in, I saw some strange movement out of the corner of my eye. The sheets were lifting up off the bed. Suddenly her feet appeared out of the top of her covers and she moved her wrinkly, spider veined legs up to her face and, using her toes like a damn monkey, she grabbed firmly onto the feeding tube.

I was frozen in amazement for a few seconds, but then I leapt up, spilled my coffee all over the floor as I raced into the room to stop her from pulling out the last of my feeding tubes. I stopped her and pushed her legs back down. I softly restrained her ankles to the bed then stood back and gazed upon this octogenarian who was so limber and sneaky. All I could think about was how much I wished I had known her back in the 1940’s. It is not often you can meet a woman who is double jointed, and okay with bondage.

After that she did not get the tube out again, but in a final screw-you from Karma, at 6am the next morning her doctor strolled by and wrote an order to pull the feeding tube and see if she can eat normally.

It's Time For Androgyny

Killer appreciates hermaphrodites

Androgynous vs. Erogenous

At work I was recently accosted by a fellow nurse. She is in her late fifties, recently divorced and now seeing a new beau. She is excited by the prospects of a new relationship, and all the “perks” that come with such. She had me cornered and decided I am open minded enough to hear about her and the new guy’s explorations in the bedroom. I was trying my best to seem as uninterested as possible and hoping she would stop filling my head with the image of middle aged sex romps when she said something that caught my attention. “…the Joy of Sex mentions the importance of your lover’s androgynous zones.” I immediately perked up, “What?” This caused her to mistakenly think I was interested in the conversation. “The androgynous zones are special sexually exciting spots on your body. Everyone has them; you just have to find them.” I paused, searched my built in dictionary to make sure I was not the one who was confused, “So, your new boyfriend has some androgynous regions?” She smiled coyly, “Oh yes, he is very androgynous.” As if that exchange wasn’t strange enough, “I can’t wait to meet this highly androgynous guy. What’s his name?” She looked me square in the eye and said, “His name is Pat.” At this point I just had to walk away. I could not decide if was just messing with me, or if this was some sort of twilight zone conversation.

Apparently my sudden departure gave her cause for concern. She would later come to me and earnestly request my forgiveness for making me uncomfortable with her talk of her sexual escapades. She then repeatedly apologized for telling me about Pat’s “highly androgynous body”, and that if he knew that anyone else knew, he would be very embarrassed. I told her not to worry, if he is that androgynous, everyone probably already noticed.

By the end of the shift I was feeling guilty; because it was obvious she was still worried about having offended my sensitive nature. I got online and printed up the definition of Androgynous and the definition for Erogenous. I put them on her desk when she wasn’t looking, as I headed out the door. I did not want to stick around to see her reaction. I have never met “Pat” so maybe she actually did mean androgynous.

Disgusting Poop Post

Killer ruins the dreams of those around them: A post about flowers.

There are some really bad infections people can get. Some people get an infection and then wind up in the hospital, but most often people come into the hospital and wind up with an infection. Why does that happen? Well, because the people with infections are here, and that means their germs are here. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, Grandma has the clap.

Okay, so Grandma can’t catch the clap just from failure to wash hands, her catching the clap would be a different post, and I am hesitant to go into that. Instead we will talk about a more unpleasant infection, one that resides in the bowels and results in the most heinous poop ever.

C-diff is a bowel infection that causes frequent liquid/mucous stool that is characterized by a “distinct barn-yard smell”. If you are in the nursing profession and are unfortunate enough to run across a patient with this affliction, you can pretty much guarantee you will hate the whole of your shift. Lots of horrific poop to clean and no one wants to help you do it. Often one has to burn every past favor and make future promises to get some assistance.

Recently I was the lucky winner in the C-diff patient lottery. My fella was a poop, poop, poopin’ machine. I managed to trick a couple of fellow nurses into coming into the room by telling them a re-run of American Idol was on the TV. Once inside, it is a common rule that you have to stay and help.

They were struggling to hold the rather large patient while I was cleaning the offensive area. I tried to convince them to clean while I held, but they were not willing to be team players. One of the girls made the comment, “I wish poop smelled like roses.” The other girl whole heartedly agreed, and added, “I bet more people would be nurses if poop smelled like roses.”

I disagreed with this assessment and felt it my duty to destroy their rose scented dream world. I informed them that if poop smelled like roses you would have one of two scenarios.

Scenario one: Everyone enjoys the smell of shit too much. Everyone will stop flushing their toilets at home. Why buy potpourri when all you have do is feed your husband chili and leave the bathroom door open. Visitors will come by the house and say things like, “Mmmmm that is a lovely scent in here. Can your husband come take a dump at my house? We are having a party tonight.”

Scenario two: Everyone is disgusted by the smell of roses. What kind of message would it send when, for Valentines Day, you send your special lady a dozen plants that smell like something that came out of a fat guy’s ass? Would you really plant a bush in your back yard that smells like shit?

They were not happy about my raining on their parade. The rest of the clean up was pretty much in silence. They were also awfully pissed about the American Idol ruse. I guess if I get that guy back tonight I will have to think of a new ploy. Maybe a trail of M&M’s leading into my disgustingly stinky room.

Feel The Burn!!

Killer giving credit where credit is due.

I have shared several conversations involving RN1 from work. She is older, has lots of cats, and in my opinion, is a tad naive. I often tease her and make jokes at her expense. I and a few others take the effort to make her uncomfortable and expose her to new ideas.

Like a rat in a lab experiment, I feel she is learning and adapting to her environment.

Allow me to elaborate.

Rn1 and I are sitting in the break room relaxing.

Rn1: Oooo, you have to see the latest pictures of my cats.
Me: Unless you have pictures of one of you cats getting run over, I don't want to see them.
Rn1: Quit being mean, even you will love these.
Me: What's the last thing that goes through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Rn1: (digging through her purse) I'm ignoring you.
Me: What's the last thing that goes through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Rn1: (pulling out her pictures) I won't ask.
Me: (with my eyes closed tightly) I won't look at your pictures until you ask.
Rn1: Okay, what is the last thing to go through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Me: My back left tire.
Rn1: I don't get it, and for once, I am glad about that. (she lays out about twenty photos of her cats. One cat is dressed like a groom and the other a bride. A cat wedding.)
Rn1: Isn't that the cutest thing you have ever seen?
Me: (jaw agape) Dear merciful God, what have you done?
Rn1: Don't act all macho, I know, deep down, you think it is adorable.
Me: Did these cats shit on your pillow? Is this some sort of severe cat punishment?
Rn1: They like it
Me: I can see, "please kill me" pouring out of their beady little eyes.
Rn1: My boys love playing dress up.
Me: Boys?!? Isn't that one in a dress a girl?
Rn1: No, I don't have any girl cats.
Me: So, you have decided to turn that fella into a trani?
Rn1: He is always the girl, because he is the prettiest.
Me: I think in a past life these cats were really evil and your house is like a feline hell.
Rn1: (scooping up her pictures) You always make fun of me. Can't you have fun without it being at my expense?
Me: Someone always has to pay for fun. It is a scientific fact that all fun costs at least four dollars.
Rn1: (placing the pictures back in her purse, she suddenly pulls out a five dollar bill) Here take this and go have fun in a corner by yourself.
Me: (stunned) OH-MY-GOD! You just burned me good. That was a pro-level burn."
Rn1: (smiling with a very proud look) I know, I saw the five dollars, and it just came to me. You're right, that was fun.
Rn1: Can I have my five dollars back?
Me: No way, someone has to pay for that fun, and it won't be me.
Rn1: It was totally worth it.

Cat Skinning 101

I often write about conversations I have with "RN1 and RN2". They are both great nurses and fun to work with, primarily because RN1 is so easy to torment, and RN2 always encourages me to do so. RN1 is older, has a multitude of cats, and loves all things cute. I hate all things cute and RN2 knows this.

Recently RN1 brought to work a canvas tote bag with a large picture of a cat dangling from rod by it's cute little paws. It read, "Hang in There!" She was displaying it proudly to RN2 and I when the following conversation was born.

RN2: Your bag makes me think of that saying, "There is more than one way to skin a cat."
RN1: I hate that saying.
Me: I don't understand that saying.
RN2: What is there to not understand? There is more than one method in which to remove the skin from a feline. Simple. Elegant.
RN1: You guys are just trying to make me cry again.
Me: I understand the words, but basically, cut along his back, from head to tail and pull the skin down. It seems that is the only way to skin a cat.
RN2: What! I could list a dozen other ways to skin a cat.
Me: A dozen? I don't believe that. You're going to have to make a list.
RN1: You both know I love cats. Stop talking about killing cats.
RN2: We never said we would kill them. We are just having a scientific discussion about removing their skin.
Me: I think it would be a lot quieter if they were dead first.
RN2: I'm not saying skin them alive. We would be using cats that were already dead. Like if it was hit by a car. OH! That is #1. Hit cat with car, back tire spins on cat, skin peels off.
Me: That doesn't count. You could never reproduce that in a scientific study.
RN2: I bet I could.
Me: You would be killing off an awful lot of cats trying.
RN1: You said you were not going to kill the cats.
RN2: I said they would already be dead.
Me: Do you have a giant box of dead cats at home to use for these tests?
RN2: Maybe, how big is "giant"?
RN1: I really hate you guys.
RN2: Boil them.
Me: Boil them?!? We are skinning cats, not making soup.
RN2: Boiling an animal long enough will loosen the flesh, eventually it will slide right off.
Me: Holy Shit! What are you doing in your spare time? Only you and a handful of serial killers know that nugget of information.
RN1: (walking away) I want to drive home and hug my cats.
Me: Could you boil me until the skin comes off?
RN2: That would be one big ass pot. I only have cat size.

Single handedly destroying society

Killer failing miserably to clean things up around here

Man, I have been on a roll lately with my working conversations. The last hospital was too busy to talk, but here, there is little else to do.

Out of the blue, RN1 says, "You know, I am constantly disappointed with the increase of 'potty' humor that is being used."

I, feeling my ears turn red with guilt, replied, "What do you mean?"

RN1: "T.V. shows, comedians, and people in general only want to talk about sex, genitals, or disgusting bodily functions. I really believe that it is a sign of our culture collapsing around us when people find these things funny."

RN2: "I don't think it is any worse than the past."

RN1, flabbergasted: "What! Don't you watch T.V.? When I see this humor it makes me cry."

Me: "You actually weep if a T.V. show makes a joke about sex or diarrhea?"

RN1: "Don't you find it heartbreaking that our children are seeing this and are being taught it is acceptable and funny?"

RN2: "I think you are being a bit melodramatic."

RN1: "If you had kids you would understand."

RN2, to me: "I'm going tomorrow to get my pussy shaved."

RN1 puts her head in her hands.

Me: "I'm going to have my balls waxed next week."

RN2: "No really, I am taking my pet cat to get a haircut. He looks like a lion afterwards."

Me: "You shave your pussy to look like a lion?"

RN2: "Yes, if I don't shave him he gets very matted and poo sticks in his fur."

Me: "I wax my balls for the same reason. Afterwards they look like a turtle without it's shell."

RN1, lifts her head, stands up and as she storms away, "I don't know why I talk to you people."

Me: "She didn't cry."

RN2: "I don't know what a turtle looks like without his shell."

Me: "I'll show you later."

Anal Retentive About Anal Retention

Yesterday I was admitting a woman into the ICU. She was unconcious and two of her daughters were there to give me her history. Usually this involves asking some very basic questions that I have asked so many times I tend to just blaze through them.

After asking the standard, "Does she have any allergies? What medicines does she take at home? Etc." Then came one of the more bizarre questions, that if you are not in the medical field, you don't really understand the need. "Do you know when she had her last bowel movement?" The usual answer, unless you have to change her diaper, is "I don't know".

Daughter one said, "She goes atleast three times a day. She gets very stressed out about her bowel movements."

Daughter two added, "Oh yes, her bowel movements are extremely important. She is anal attentive about it."

Daughter one looked at two and said, "That doesn't sound right. anal attentive, is that the right word?"

Daughter two retorted, "I'm not an idiot. That is a legitimate thing to say." She then looks at me and asks, "There is nothing wrong with that statement is there?"

I, being eager to get back to my book and not understanding why I was suddenly the English language expert, said, "Well, considering she was obsessed with having three bowel movements a day, I would say anal attentive fits the bill."

What Would You Bring?

Killer, pissing off the natives.

Setting: Four nurses sitting around the nurses station eating cookies. Alarms are going off, people are calling for help, but that can wait. We have cookies.

RN1: If we are all stranded on a deserted island what is the one item you would want?

RN2: I would want a big box of matches so I can make fire and stay warm. I hate to be cold.

*nods of agreement with murmurs of approval.

RN3: I want fishing supplies so I can get some food.

*more enthusiastic agreement. RN2 now looks dejected that her match idea has been bested.

RN1: Well, I would want a Bible so I could pray to be rescued.

*sudden back pedaling by 2&3. The Bible was understood, they want a second chance.

Me: I would want a baseball bat so I could hit you guys and take away your items. I could fish, then start a fire to cook the fish.

*2&3 laugh and a discussion begins on the weapons/traps they could make out of fishing wire and matches to stop a bat wielding lunatic on a deserted island.

RN1: (looking aghast) That is really not fair. You would actually hit someone and take their Bible?

Me: No, I wouldn't want your Bible. On the deserted island, me and my bat would rule. I would start my own religion, quickly making your Bible obsolete.

RN1: I would use my Bible and start a church on the island.

Me: Well, my new religion would have church services that were centered around all you can eat fish fries.

*RN1 turns to 2&3 and very seriously asks:

RN1: Who's church are you going to join?

*2&3 are obviously enjoying tormenting RN1.

RN3: If he has all the fishing supplies and matches, we would have to go the fish fry church.

RN1: (standing in a huff) I'll pray for your souls.

Me: (as she storms away) I'll fry some fish for yours.

The Golden Years of Sex

In continuation of the bizarre topics of discussion at work:
Which Golden Girl Would You Bang?

"Blanche Devereaux" (Rue McClanahan) The slutty one.

This would seem like the obvious choice. She is experienced and likes to get freaky, but she is a slut. The only thing worse than getting a STD is getting a STD from the 19th century. Not only could you get the clap, but she might also carry polio or rickets.





"Rose Nylund" (Betty White) The stupid one.

Stupid chicks are easy targets. You could probably trick her into sex by convincing her you are a doctor and you need to give her a "special exam". She gets disqualified for constantly talking about her dead husband. Major turn off.





"Dorothy Petrillo-Zbornak" (Beatrice Arthur) The male one

I refuse to believe this is a woman. She is seven feet tall with a baritone voice. To quote the 40 Year Old Virgin, "How did you know it was a man?" "Her hands were the size of Andre the Giants, and her adams apple was as big as her balls."





"Sophia Petrillo" (Estelle Getty) The REALLY old one.

We have a winner! Small and sassy, just like I like 'em. She's so old, in her early twenties she sold veggie burritos and bootlegged powder wigs outside of Mozart concerts. That just guarantees no risk of a long term relationship. That's always a winning trait.