Saturday Funhouse: Four inventions I need now

[Adult language]

I need four, count them, four inventions to make my life with CF easier and more fun.

Spit away

1. Bug-zapper dentist spittoon. This invention would be a combo device to cough phlegm into that would kill it dead. It’s similar to the cuspidor suction attachment at the dentist’s office with the sno-cone paper cup – the one that makes a suction sound of whoosh, there goes the blood from your gums and blue mouthwash, drool puss.

I need one major modification made to it.

Die PA, die!

I need the suction device attached to a bug zapper with sound effects. When I spit mucus into it, I want that lung deposit to burn in a small inferno like a fly at a fourth of July BBQ hitting the bug zapper. And I want sound effects when the bacteria bite the dust. How about two-dozen different screaming sounds to choose from every time the green goo burns to death. AYYYYEEEEEEEEE, it will scream out in its last second of scum life. BACTERIA BE GONE!

That will teach you to live in my lungs, motherfuckers.

Step right up, partner and down a dose of Xopenex

2. The hanging neb holder. Remember the 70’s craze of hanging plants from the ceiling in macramé holders? You may be too young if you don’t. Trust me, it happened. Well, I am tired of holding my nebs in my mouth like a cigar. I want a neb holder that hangs from the ceiling, which will free up my hands for a beer and stick of Big Ralph’s Glazed Buffalo Jerky. I’ll attach my neb, then mosey on up and start my treatment while it hangs in the air. Look ma, no hands.

A bungy cord design may work best, as I’ll be able to move around without fear of my teeth ripping out should I make a sudden wrong move, such as passing out drunk with indigestion.

Hulk must regulate the situation now!

3. I want to look like the Hulk in my Vest. It’s impossible to look cool wearing the Vest, with its two hose attachments protruding like cow teats. Here’s my idea to fix that. Have you ever seen those swimsuits for kids that have the life preserver built into the suit?  They look like muscles. That’s the look I want for my vest.  I want to be able to walk outside and not look like an astronaut that needs to be hooked up to his oxygen tank before shuttle lift-off.

When my neighbor sees me he’ll say: “Hey, UC, you been lifting the heavy iron lately? You’re looking buff, my man.”

I’ll reply: “That’s right puny neighbor dude. I have been lifting cars. And if you park that shitty van in front of my house again, I’ll regulate your ass and your van from here to the moon.”

Boring. Add flames and you'll have fun and an act.

4. And now the act you’ve all been waiting for. I want a flutter that plays music. I spend enough time blowing into the damn thing that it should give me more than just clear lungs – it should give me a career path in entertainment. I want to be able to play every song in the Rolling Stones catalog on it.

Can you imagine me performing on America’s Got Talent?

“And what will you be playing for us tonight, bag-over-your-head-guy?” the judges will ask.

I’ll play Gimme Shelter on the mysterious instrument no one has ever seen.

HOLY COW, what an amazing device and sound, the audience will think. He’s spent hours perfecting his technique. Look at how red his face gets.

The performance will go great until, you guessed it, the flutter makes me start coughing up my lung pollution. Then audience members will turn away in horror and I’ll get three X’s and the hook. The last words from the clean-up crew will be: “I can’t figure out how to get this crap off the stage. Someone bring me a blow torch.”

At the very least, could someone please invent a Flutter that is exciting to use, perhaps one that shoots flames? Please?

I could use it to perform at Venice Beach on weekends, right next to the guy who juggles chainsaws near the cheapo-sunglass stands.

I’ll be called Mr. Flutter Flames. And I’ll have no eyebrows.

Stay well.

Dust in the light

Have you ever been sitting in a room and noticed the sun shining in at an unusual angle – an angle that makes you study your surroundings?

Summer light in the late afternoon with its brightness creates this odd effect. Dust particles float in shafts of light. I breathe that every day? you ask yourself. The room takes on a different look and feel. You notice design elements you forgot were there, such as the wood grain of the coffee table, or the texture of a chair’s fabric. You see details you normally don’t see which hide in plain sight the other days of the year.

I have those moments with CF.

When I was a child, I took powdered enzymes in applesauce. Then, at some point, I couldn’t do it anymore. I gagged on the applesauce and the terrible taste of the powder. They gave me solid pills when that happened. At some point I remember switching to Viokase, then Pancrease, and now Creon. Along the way I probably crossed the “300,000 pills taken” checkpoint, perhaps 350,000.

I often forget that most people don’t take pills with food. The other day I wondered if my wife had taken her pills before eating. Only one problem: she doesn’t have to take them because she doesn’t have CF. But for a moment I thought the norm for everyone was taking a handful of enzymes with meals.

Last night I was doing my inhaled treatments, which I do every single day without fail, and it hit me again that this is something most people do not have to do two or three times a day everyday. It’s routine for me. It’s white noise. But this was one of those brief moments when the sun shined in and I saw my situation in a different light. I noticed, became aware of, was reminded of the absurdity of the daily routine needed to stay out of the hospital.

So, I opened up a little box in my mind, placed the thought inside it, and shut the lid. Then I did two hypertonic salines, my Symbicort, my Spiriva, my heart medicine, and my Cayston, and headed to bed. I knew tomorrow I would repeat it. And again the next day. And the day after. And, with hope and luck, for many days after that.

And I thought: some days it’s best to ignore dust in the light.

Frack Off

I worry about the Earth my daughter will inherit and its condition when she does. Our oceans are filling with plastic debris; many of our streams flow with poison in them; the planet is getting warmer; and we’ve almost reached peak oil production. And now, thanks to a new film by Josh Fox, I’ve learned that many underground water supplies and watersheds contain poisonous chemicals from a drilling and chemical process called Hydraulic Fracturing, or fracking.

Have you ever seen someone light tap water on fire? I hadn’t until I watched the film. It’s funny at first until you realize the water is poisoned and can’t be used. Then it’s not so funny. And it’s all in the search of clean energy – clean gas energy. The irony of this search for clean energy is that it depends on polluting techniques to unearth it.

(Would you like to see water catch on fire? Play the video below.)

The gas companies inject various chemicals into the ground to fracture the Earth’s crust and release the gas, where it’s captured by wells on the surface. Unfortunately, the majority of the chemicals they inject are dangerous to humans, not biodegradable, and poison water supplies – and the air above thanks to the venting of the wells.

It’s one of the best documentaries I’ve ever watched – simple, to the point, and revealing. Its sub-themes reminded me again of the power certain companies wield over our elected officials. Somehow our government continues to make decisions that are good for companies and bad for our well-being. This hypocrisy is very clear in the film, and makes me feel hopeless about our government’s ability to protect our interests and health.

Here is the link to the web site. Click on “drilling areas” to see how extensive fracking is in the USA:

Here is the link to the HBO site if you’d like to watch Gasland

Stay well.

I Want To Be Jack Nicholson

Visit to the optometrist

The eye doctor told me I needed new reading and distance glasses. I thought I’d have to buy two separate pairs, but she told me I could get one pair with “progressive” lenses that covered all distances. Sounded great. Not sure how the magic works, but I love saving money.

Here I am wearing the glasses in question. Finally, no bag over my head, though I'd look better with one on.

To prevent a fashion faux pas, I brought my wife. And after trying on a dozen styles, she helped me choose a pair of tortoise-shell Nike glasses with a green inner frame, which was a hip, youthful touch. They seemed okay, but I didn’t have lenses in them so I couldn’t get a clear image of how I looked. But my wife told me they looked good.

After the frame was picked, the sales guy tried to sell me every 80 dollar add-on I didn’t need. I gave in for the glare protection because that feature might help at night. Even with insurance I got pounded for over 250 dollars.

A week passed and I picked up my glasses. Looking in the mirror with them on, two things happened. First, I realized that I looked like Robert De Niro at the end of Casino when he wore huge old-guy glasses. Second, I couldn’t see clearly because of the progressive lenses, which require you to look out of certain parts of the lens to see close up, medium or far distances. Oh, #!$* me.

The sales guy told me not to worry because it takes a week to get comfortable using them, but not to walk down stairs or drive with them yet. What the? Do I have to visit a mall parking lot like I did at age 15 and learn to drive again in these things? Are you kidding me? How did I go to eyeglass hell and not know it?

I was pretty upset at that point. I looked 80-years-old and couldn’t see well (that is probably how I’ll be at that age if, by some miracle, I outfox CF). Yet, the coup de grâce was still on the way. When I got home, I asked my wife if she thought the glasses looked good on me. She shrugged her shoulders and said something like “I thought they did.” Oh, being married some days. Argh, argh, argh. You thought they did? Past tense? What about now, at this moment?

The real blow to the head came when I tried to use them while doing computer work. Impossible, as they had no sweet spot that allowed me to focus clearly on the computer monitor. I could eek out a “less-blurry” image if I tilted my head sideways at just the right distance, and held one leg in the air, but I wouldn’t be able to maintain that pose for the 10 to 12 hours I spend looking at three monitors.

Give me a new pair and I'll let you live. Maybe.

I hate situations like this where I feel like I got hosed. I wish I were Jack Nicholson with his unlimited funds and volcano temper and I could stand in the middle of the optometrist’s office, with the joker who sold them to me sitting there, and the doctor who told me progressive lens were the way to go looking on, and throw the new eyeglasses to the ground, then jump on them until they became a mass of pulverized Nike plastic.

I’d calmly say: “Now how about selling me a pair of glasses I can see out of and use for work without tilting my head like a curious dog waiting for a treat – a pair that doesn’t make me look like I accidently walked out of the nursing home during a game of bingo and can’t find my walker or my way back?”

Is there anyone here who can do that? Is there anyone here who knows what the *$&# they’re doing?

Of course I’d take a 9-iron to the racks of crappy glasses on the walls, destroying them all. Then I’d drop my credit card on the counter and say, “I didn’t see anything I liked today. Call me when your new inventory arrives.”

Oh, how I wish I could do that. Instead, I have to go back and see how much it’s going to cost me to get new ones. I can’t wait to take it in the shorts – again.

I’m living proof some of us don’t get smarter as we grow older. We just get fuglier.

Stay well.

25 years with Mrs. Unknown

I laughed out loud when I started to write this post. I’m serious; I did, literally. Let me explain.

25 years in the best bankrupt state in the union

This August it will 25 years since I met my wife.

I laughed when I thought of that because I have no idea what she was thinking when she started dating me, let alone marrying me. I was/am/will always be a mental case. I can say with 100 percent certainty that I got the better end of the deal.

Her work ethic inspired me to go back to achieve the goal I couldn’t on my own – getting a college degree. I’ll always be in her debt for that one alone, not to mention the way she’s supported me over the years. I can’t imagine that I would have made it this far without her.

We’ve been married for how many years?  . . . do the math . . . wait for it . . . wait for it . . . thinking . . . thinking some more . . . I use words, not numbers . . . here it comes . . . 18 years. Yeah, 18 years, I think. Close enough. Wow, married that long? It’s a blink. I’ve never in all of these years asked her if she had doubts, or how she put the CF aside, or was she worried or afraid? Or, if I did, I’ve since blocked out the conversations. Best not to question another person’s temporary insanity.

I will share where I asked her to marry me, which is pretty corny, but I was an English major and probably deep in a book with lots of overt symbolism, plus I was young and . . . brighter than I am now. Hey, that doesn’t make sense.

I love Dairy Queen and my wife. I especially love taking my wife to Dairy Queen, when we can find one.

Anyway, I asked mi esposa to marry me at the top of the first hill on a rollercoaster at Magic Mountain. The Viper, I think. Just before the car went down the crazy-steep first drop, I asked. And it took the entire ride of screaming and holding on tight and the coaster returning to the station for her to say “yes.” Amazing that she did say “yes,” which may have just been a response to me asking “great ride, huh?” Again, I don’t question it. I don’t understand it, and I don’t question it.

I wonder what she would do if she had a time machine now, would she still say yes?  I know the answer, as my daughter pretty much means she won’t mess with anything that would affect that timeline. So, I’ve safe. Or, my past is. My future? Hard to say. I don’t take it for granted.

What kind of courage does it take to marry someone with CF? I’d guess a lot. And when that CF someone is self-absorbed and the equivalent of a day at a rainy beach with the wind blowing sand in your face, I’d say extraordinary courage is required.

A writer friend of mine, who has since passed, once told me it’s best not to analyze love. I’ve taken that advice to heart and never examined it with a microscope. Shakespeare pretty much covered the subject for all of eternity anyway.

So, 25 years have passed. I know they’re not all marriage years, but with CF, I’m counting them that way. I have to figure out something nice to get her. I know that 25 years with me has been gift enough, but a trinket might be in order. She doesn’t like to spend money and doesn’t like jewelry. I’m at a loss. Hmm, what could I buy for myself that I’d be able to say is really for her? I’ve done that many times over the years.

How can I repay her for the 25 years? I’ll have to think about it. It’s not an easy question to answer.

To be continued.

Visit to my GI doctor

I went to see my gastro doctor today. I’m so used to going to clinic with a mask and gloves on it felt strange going “naked” to a non-CF doctor with patients in the waiting room not worried about bacteria. I still took precautions by taking my own pen to sign in with, and I used my shirt to open every door. Afterall, it is an office with patients who may have c-diff, which is something I hope I never get again.

The nurse made me wear a paper gown, which could have been 120-grit sandpaper. I should have written “Von’s” on it since it fell like a grocery bag.

When the doctor went to shake my hand, I put my elbow out and told him I might be coming down with a cold. Bad move on my part. Later in the exam, he thought that some of the chest pain might be from the cold. I had to backpedal a bit and tell him I wasn’t sure if I had the cold yet, and we should ignore it as a possible cause. I reminded him I was being cautious because I didn’t want to give it to him and have him give it to his patients WHEN HE SHAKES THEIR HANDS.

Doctors need to drop hand-shaking. Shaking hands comes in second on the list of ways to catch sh** you don’t want, right behind French kissing with open sores in your mouth.

Dr. Gastro wants to do an endoscopy and colonoscopy on me. Argh, argh, argh. Last time he put me under it took forever to regain my lung function. Something about the anesthesia gets to my breathing. More embarrassing last time was when I was just about to go nighty night, I started telling the anesthesiologist how good looking he was. True story. When I woke up he had written his phone number on my stomach.

I’m just kidding about the phone number part, but I wish I was making up the part about going on and on about his good looks. I’m not. It’s embarrassing to think about, but the guy did look like a frigging model.

Regarding the potential procedures, I told the doc that I’d have to speak to my CF doc and get back to him. I’m thinking that the next time I’m on IVs they can do the tests in the hospital. The IVs may help prevent me from losing my air for awhile. We’ll see. Regardless, I don’t want to do those tests, as the potential results scare me.

If only I had a coupe of fistulas on my body. Dr. Gastro could have opened them up and looked inside me, squeezed my intestines and rubbed my colon – all while I sat there and watched.

Oh, cows in Texas with holes in your body, will you ever leave my thoughts?

Stay well.

A Window to My Heart

I woke up this morning sweating with pain in the center of my chest where my Xiphoid process is located, which is one of the coolest names for anything in the body, and a great name for rock band. I wondered: Is it my heart? My esophagus? Stomach? Where are you coming from, Pain? WHEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?

So, at 5:30 in the morning I sat there exceeding the maximum dosage for Tums, hoping it might be GERD from last night’s meal. Then I thought about cows.

I thought about cows because of the latest post by Dr. Nanos, which is a name I like a lot because it sounds very superhero or super villain-like, depending on whether Nanos uses her scientific mind for good or evil. Well, the good Dr. posted a picture of a scientific cow with a fistula in its side (these cows have windows, fistulas, in them so the scientists can look at the cow’s insides and open it up to stick their hands in).

Yuck, get out of my head image of the cow with the ship window in it. Too late.

I had a nightmare a few hours earlier, not about cows, but about someone breaking into the house. And usually I only have nightmares when I eat something that doesn’t agree with me. So, I hoped it was heartburn, not my heart. And I wished I had a fistula in my chest that I could use to look inside my body. (How creepy would that be?) However, I would like to see what’s going on in my stomach and be able to stick my hand in there like a box of gooey slime on Halloween.

The combination of anxiety adrenalin and thinking about cow ports killed any chance of going back to sleep. I sat there on the edge of the old couch I sleep on thinking about how I would approach my predicament during the day. Would I call my heart doctor? Or my stomach doctor? Then I noticed the triceps on my left arm looked gigantic and was tender. I must have had a reaction to yesterday’s allergy shot. Oh, just great, damn it. Now I have a trifecta of doctors to call.

At 9:00, I called my allergy doc, who was very nice and told me not to worry, as we’d bump the dose down next week. I made an appointment with my stomach doctor for tomorrow because my stomach bothered me all day. I called my heart doctor to talk to him, as he’s good at calming me down, but he’s out until August. Dr. Xanax filled in for him.

Tonight I’ve decided that I’m tired of having to go to where the medical equipment is. I want it to come to me. So, I’m going to plan a heist worthy of a movie and steal everything I need. This way when I wake up with pain, I can simply run an EKG or stick an endoscope down my throat to see what’s going on. I won’t have to stress about getting in to see a doctor or going to the ER. I’ll have everything I need. Hmm, I’ll probably need a doctor at home to help. I’ll kidnap one of those, too.

BTW, I’ll need a crew to help me break into the ER, which is open 24 hours a day. We’ll need to carry everything out in our clothing. Who wants to help out?  Any ideas how we’ll get the x-ray machine out?  Send in your resume if you’re interested. Do criminals have resumes? Probably not. An email and prison record will work.

Remember, when you read my future post about all of my new home medical equipment, you have no idea where it came from.

Stay silent, fellow perps.

Those fleeting moments of feeling well

Today I read a very good post by Mandi at

She does some nice detective work figuring out what’s it like to not feel well with CF. For me, she touches upon one of the hardest parts of having cystic fibrosis – just generally feeling under the weather a lot. It would be much easier if I felt great for three or four months after a tune-up. Then, bang, I start feeling bad and in I go for a tune-up. Now that I’m older, the stretches between I.V.s test me to a greater degree and are battles to see how long I can stay well and out of the hospital. And not cough up blood – my favorite CF event.

A few weeks ago, my coughing production quadrupled, which is the sign that I’m getting ready for another tune-up. I know the pattern well by now. It’s when I have days I lack energy, have strange chest pains and SOB, and feel like giving up. It’s made worse by the fact I have grind out work most days. But I hate going in the hospital more, though I sometimes think it would be nice to live there.

As I’ve gotten older, CF is complicated by other aging issues. I don’t know about anyone reading this and their experience, but when I don’t feel well the first place I look is CF – it gets blamed right away, villain that it is. However, it hasn’t been the cause of my health problems every time.

It’s a challenge to get my CF doctor, who is excellent at what he does, to look beyond CF. When I’m in the hospital or at clinic and it feels like I have more than an exacerbation, I have a hard time describing why I don’t feel well and the symptoms. This makes it harder for the doctors to comprehend. They think I’m crazy.

I’m embarrassed to say what illnesses I’ve thought I’ve had in the past. However, I have called a few right, one being a wheat intolerance. I thought it was CF causing the madness, but it was because of my diet and wheat. Once I reduced my wheat intake by 90 percent the symptoms started disappearing. I did rub in the fact at clinic that hell froze over and I was correct for once – lucky guess?

I haven’t been feeling well most days for awhile now, as usual, but I can’t blame wheat this time. It’s something else, and I can’t get it off of my mind.

Here’s how my thought process goes most days: Am I taking too much magnesium? Is it the chocolate? Testosterone? Is it my stomach or my heart? They said my heart was okay. Why did I get shoulder pains yesterday and some chest discomfort? What caused the bloating? Why am I getting shortness of breath lately? I’m back on Cayston. Is it not working? My peak flow is good. Pulseox down 1 percent. Is it a panic attack? I don’t feel anxious. How can I describe this to the doctor? Is it time to go to the gun store? Could I be eating something that affects my heart?

And it goes on and on like that for days, weeks, months.

Yes, I am insane.


Random Notes and Photos Related to Past Posts

The front page of today’s L.A Times includes a section and articles under the heading, “The Future of Reading.”,0,2712081.story

Here’s an L.A. Times link with a podcast discussion of books and how they are evolving thanks to technology.

I include these links because of my recent post on the iPad. There is a lot of discussion going on right now regarding how technology will evolve the book, and whether eReaders will kill the physical book itself. Books have been around 100’s of years and have outlasted many past claims of their death. Yet, it’s exciting to witness this latest major transformation. My daughter may miss most of it because she may not remember what it was like before books transformed into digital files, though she’ll see plenty of reminders in the house.

Here are some random photos I’ve taken related to past posts.

Blind Pig on a Stick

This pink pig sits on a pole in Topanga Canyon. It must have been the figure head for a business at some point, though no business remains, or I missed it if it does. Now the pig stands guard as an oddity and mystery of old Topanga.

Fly little pig, fly

I decided to free the pig from its painful perch atop the pole. Thank you, Photoshop. I hope the lucky pig finds a new home now that it can fly away.

McDairy Queen or McDonalds?

When I saw the banner for smoothies at McDonald’s I almost crashed my car. I have yet to find out the ingredients and caloric count of these, but I suspect a plot of some kind. Healthy smoothies at McDonalds? Hmm, why am I suspicious?

Perhaps I am suspicious because “McDonald’s” isn’t printed on any of the advertising. Check out their web page and you’ll notice the use of “McDonald’s” is downplayed. “McCafe” appears more often. Interesting. Name change in the works?

Why do I feel like ordering a Frappe?

I believe subliminal advertising works. I’m not sure if this qualifies as subliminal, but it’s either brilliant marketing or overkill. How can you get through the line without noticing these on a conscious or unconscious level? The drinks look more tempting than anything else you might eat in your day. Let’s just eat desert all day long. No wonder my daughter wants treats all the time – the world works her over with tasty images of high caloric treats. Who can resist?

That’s it for today.

Stay well.

Saturday Funhouse – My Ideal Hospital Room

[Adult language]

My good pal @seanset,, wrote a comment here moaning and groaning about me not writing a Saturday Funhouse for awhile. How the hell did that happen?  Thanks, mate, for reminding me. Here you go. This one’s for you. And yes, I know it’s Sunday Funhouse where you live.

My Ideal Hospital Room

No jumpers, please. The first thing I’d add to my room is a balcony. I’d like fresh air each day without having to gear up with a mask and gloves and endure the fearful looks from people in the elevator (yes, idiot person who moved to the back, as if that will really help, I have the Bubonic plague, but they let me roam the hospital to drive up revenues with fresh patients).

Each morning I want to pop out of bed, I.V in tow, and take three steps to the great outdoors, yelling: Hello, World, I’m still here, ha ha ha ha ha ha, the joke’s on you.

Imagine cooking outside your hospital room. Rocking. How do you like your steak cooked, Fox?

How nice would it be to sit on the balcony in the morning reading while doing treatments? I could wave to my fellow CFers on their balconies. We could have a contest to see who could make the funniest voice with the vest turned to max. Then we could see who could spit farther, which might be the reason they don’t have hospital balconies in the first place. Not exactly the image the hospital wants to promote with a bunch of us sitting in our underwear spitting on the roof or gardens below.

Imagine people driving up to the hospital watching patients on the balconies doing nebs. Might be too much for them to take. Not us, cause we’ve been to places no one should have to go. So there. Roll up your windows when you drive by, people. BTW, I’d hang some laundry on the railing just to give it that old apartment-building look. And I want the BBQ in the picture.

You can’t make me go in there. I don’t take showers in the hospital. I look at that dark, nasty chamber and connect it to the thought of how lazy the cleaning staff can be. You’d need a team of football players to force me in there (or two drunk Victoria’s Secret supermodels). The shower is bacteria heaven.

Let's torch some bacteria, friends.

I read that some gas stations, or petrol stations in England (you’re welcome for that translation, Sean), have self-cleaning bathrooms. Perfect. That’s how I want my hospital bathroom to work. I want to be able to press a button and watch the entire bathroom sprayed down in bleach. Then I want flames to light it up like the “Backdraft” tour at Universal Studios, killing everything the bleach missed.

Finally, I want test swabs done to make sure nothing is living in there that I don’t want living in me. After all of that, I’ll take my shower with confidence. Girls, show me that pose from page 27 again.

Trying living in the Material Girl’s laundry basket: I want a room bigger than Madonna’s smallest walk-in closet. It’s amazing what a difference an extra 20 square-feet makes when it comes to your mood and health, and where you put all of your shoes if you’re a woman. How about designing a CF room that doesn’t make me feel like a caged animal gone mad during two weeks in the hole?

Come on, hospital bed, let’s do the wave. Have you ever awakened covered in sweat because of the plastic hospital mattress? Plastic doesn’t make the best material for temperature control. However, and this is true, when I was 16 I got a waterbed. And it rocked – and rolled. It was AWESOME to sleep on. It had a plastic mattress with temperature control and heated water. That was the trick. In Winter I was warm and cozy and could sleep with only the top sheet of my Spiderman bedding.

Now this is a waterbed fit for a hospital

Now as there are a ton of needles in hospitals, waterbeds may not be the best idea. Can you imagine pressing the “I want my nurse now button and saying, “my water bed just popped. Oh, and can you bring in some towels and fresh scrubs because my wife and I are soaking wet.”

Let’s hang in Unknown’s room. I cannot tell you how many times I have come close to going “rock star” on the crappy TV with no good channels and fuzzy reception. I came this close to ripping it off the bracket at Cedars-Sinai once and tossing it out the window. Had I been a rock star, they would have just billed me. If I had done it, I would have been fighting back the cons in the L.A. Jail. So, for us time-share hospital patients, let’s load up the room with the finest entertainment center available.

I want a 52-inch HD, 3D flatscreen with every f***ing channel in the world. That’s right, in the world. I’ll even watch those crazy-ass soap operas from Brazil. I won’t understand what they’re saying, and won’t care because everyone looks tan and pretty.

I should have taken a photo of the remote last time I was in. Here's one that looks and functions just like it.

Don’t forget the sound system. I need to block out anyone yelling “nurse, nurse” from the other room. I want people to think there’s an earthquake and it sounds a lot like the battle scene in Avatar.

Lastly, give me a remote control that selects channels up and down and that doesn’t make me want to inject Drano in my IV because I just passed the channel I wanted and now I have to go through 20 crappy channels to get back to the one I passed. Whew, that’s a mouthful.

To the joker who invented that piece of shit remote, I’m still looking for you and will one day take the reverse gear out of your car. They’ll be no backing up for you after that.

Some of us work for a living. I’ve said this many times – give me a desk and chair. I work when I’m in the hospital. This ain’t no holiday, people. I have a family to feed and insurance to keep. Help me keep it, hospital room designers. That way I can come back and use my insurance again, as opposed to doing my IVs while pushing a shopping cart on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.

Design a desk and have it pull out of the wall like a Murphy Bed or something. Get with the program of the digital world we live in – the one that doesn’t go away just because you’re in the hospital.

Here’s one from Fox: Thanks, Unknown, for giving me one, you generous bastard. Fox here. Look, my fox friends, nurses have heard every line you’ll ever come up with. There is nothing you can say with your golden tongue that is going to catch one of these intelligent, caring women. Even though they wear pajamas to work, which is cool, you have zero chance of getting them to change into something more comfortable – they’re already comfortable in their nurse PJ’s and Crocs. So, you have to trick them in a different, more subtle way.

This is what I look like without the bag over my head

The water bed is a great first step. Nurses love water beds and will want to test it. When she gets on, bump up the wave action and wait for the fun to begin. You say: “Look who fell into my arms. Que romantico. My name is Fox, and I come from an exotic land called Brazil. I will kiss you now.”

Second, and this is the bait of all bait, put a stripper pole in your room. Always say it’s for exercise and the docs won’t barf all over the idea. When the doc is gone, the patient will play. No nurse can resist a pole in the room (except the one in Louisiana who’s going to write Unknown a nasty comment for this post).

Now gents,  you have to stay cool and subtle and say it like this: “What’s a little spin around the pole going to hurt? It’s a great way to get over the barf storm Mr. Wilson just coughed up all over his room?” Be encouraging. “There you go. That’s it. I’ll just be sitting here reading on my iPad. You go ahead and get crazy. Oh, yeah. Wait, let me crank the AC/DC on this awesome sound system. That’s it. Did they teach you that in college.” [the rest of Fox’s post was censored because, well, you can only imagine what happened next – out came the beer and dollar bills. Then all hell broke loose when the nurse twins came in. Oh, my, Fox. What am I going to do with you?]

Last words . . .

I’ll be playing the lottery tonight, hoping I win big and can have my hospital build a wing just for us. We’ll party like it’s our last and live the rock star lifestyle with IV’s in our arms, a neb in our mouths and a cold beer in our hand. It will be the hospital of choice for those of us who value partying. Let’s drink shots from our Flutters. What the worst that can happen? We’re in the hospital, damn it. Code Yellow, drunk fox peeing off the balcony again.

Live the high-rise life.