“Beamers”. Lexuses (or should that be “Lexi”? Fuck if I know…). SUV’s. Even -- Can this be? Could there be a sight more loathly and hateful to my yeën? --a fuckin’ minivan!
They were right! Mom was right! The preacher was right!
It’s finally happened. I’ve finally died and gone to hell!
And why am I not the least fucking bit surprised to discover that hell is filled with yuppies?
I know! I’ll write. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the only way to endure the next few hours. But what’s this? No! It can’t be! The horror! The horror! My laptop’s dead! Shit! This won’t do at all! Cruel fate, you fickle, loose-legged bitch!
Muttering curses in English, German and Turkish, I emerge from my car like foul-tempered, foulmouthed butterfly from its cocoon, and stomp up the hill to the hospital’s main entrance. The day is sunny and clear -- if a bit crisp -- a fact that renders the scenery as attractive as my mood is not.
“Following my nose”, as it were, I locate an ATM, spend two bucks on a twenty-dollar withdrawal, and, on a guess, make my way to the hospital gift shop. Great. Just fucking great. No notebooks. Nothing but ridiculously overpriced journal-type books and the item I reluctantly opt to purchase, a queer-as-a-three-dollar-bill lookin’ notepad, priced at six bucks. Said notepad is furnished with -- of all things -- an unsharpened pencil.
With yet another muttered curse, I set off in search of an eatery.
The hospital cafeteria is pretentiously named, and offers a pretentious bill of fare at extortionate prices. Aw, fuck this! Stick yer friggin 59¢ hard-boiled egg up yer ass! Where’s McDonalds? Fortunately, there is one. I order a sausage, egg and cheese bagel, hash browns and orange juice. Ain’t that much else on the menu. Well, there goes my diet, and this breakfast is probably my entire fat allowance for the day.
Odd that there would be a McDonalds in a hospital, ain’t it? Maybe the relationship is a symbiotic circle of sorts: Eat there, pack ten tons of lard onto one’s ass, clog the ol’ arteries like Elvis’s colon, and then be treated onsite for obesity and cardiac dysfunction.
I stomp back to my car, notice that there is, in fact, a pen in the glove compartment, and begin scribbling in between bites of greasy bagel and sips of orange juice.
And still there are the specimens of that most repulsive of subspecies (Yuppus americanus), the yuppie. Why are there so many of them here? Do they work here, or are they all patients? One wouldn’t think so. They way they scarf down TrimSpa and spend half their lives in Bally’s or Gold’s, one would imagine they’d be the picture of radiant good health. Could they indeed be patients? Surfing high on a wave of misanthropy, I hope so. One of them looks at me, and receives a “What are you starin’ at, fuckface?” glare for his pains.
What’s your story, knob job? I wonder, as he walks away. Prostate the size of a hubbard squash? Can’t get it up anymore? That it? Ya comin’ here in hopes of getting’ a prescription for Viagra, so’s the missus doesn’t start bangin’ that guy in accounting or wherever?
Aha! I’ve got it! You’re here for the benefit of your pudgy little larvae, aren’t you? That’s it! Your genetically inferior offspring have to be treated for ADD and peanut-allergies, don’t they? And naturally, you -- overflowing font of deoxyribonucleic uncleanness that you are -- have brought them in, haven’t you? Devil take you all!
Nah, that probably ain’t right. The pediatric hospital’s across the street. Well who cares why you’re here? As long as you have an illness of some sort -- preferably terminal -- I’m reasonably happy. Happy enough not to shank you in the parking lot, at any rate.
Another exits his car and starts up the hill, and I pass from Conrad (“Live rightly. Die, die”) -- to Carpenter: James Woods ramming a stake into a vampire and screaming: “Die! Die! Fucking die!” -- to a bumper sticker that was popular during my high school and college years: “Die, Yuppie Scum.”
Ironically, these thoughts of mortality infuse me with a sort of vitality -- an invigorating rush of disdain. Vulgar, posturing, Babbitt vermin! May you drown in your fuckin’ lattes and espressos! May you be consumed in the cleansing flames of populism! Be ye ever so vile -- and certes, ye are most vile -- no day, no eternity of days, however spent, could gentle your condition!
Nutsacks.
I really can’t stand ‘em.
But you’ve probably figured that out by now.
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1 comment:
Yups...they love hospitals. They love to work in them, and just hang out in them, even if they're not sick. That's one reason why hospital cafeterias are so expensive. They cater to this crowd. A hard boiled egg that costs almost as much as a dozen ?...Kind of like Nouvelle cuisine...not much there, but always a favorite with them. Pushing the staff around and sharing the same air with doctors gives them a real feeling of importance and belonging. Then they can tell everyone back in cubicle-land what Dr. So-and-So said.
Don't get me wrong, some of them actually need a doctor now and again. But mostly, "Healthcare," services really consist of getting prescription drugs for imaginary complaints.
The worst thing is, when Yups really have something wrong with them, we all have to hear about it. Personally, I don't need to hear the hairsplitting details of someone's colonoscopy, or giving-birth experience. Ah, well...You get the picture. I am as always, making friends and influencing people. Feel free to comment.
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