But He Can’t Help It

CNA’s indifferently accepted that some residents pissed onto the linoleum floor while lying half asleep in their beds because they were too lazy to get up and baptize the porcelain catchall. It never crossed their pea-brains that such a resident might be wildly ill-bred. Most parents teach their small children appropriate toilet habits; therapists were supposed to teach such skills to absent-minded patients. But the therapists often sloughed the responsibility off on the charge nurse, who delegated it to the CNA’s. The dullwitted CNA’s proved themselves incapable of any action beyond summoning a member of the housekeeping staff and telling them to mop the floor.

To be fair, it was hard to tell at first glance who suffered from physical dysfunction and who chose to conduct themselves like a fucking animal.

One of my roommates, Mort seemed at least three hundred years old. He didn’t walk so much as laboriously shuffle. Sometimes Mort feebly shook his fist at me and croaked that I was a “no-good damn Polack,” though my first and last names aren’t even remotely Polish. He sometimes pissed onto the floor while resting in bed. Given his age, he behaved understandably. You don’t need to be a Johns Hopkins Ph.D. candidate to comprehend that the corporal body of a human being consumed by age wears out and becomes unpredictable.

My next roommate, Bobby not only distinguished himself as an unwashed thief but also as a functional retard who routinely pissed onto the floor while lazing in his bed and watching TV (which he did most of the time). The warehouse staff didn’t realize that Bobby, though clearly very slow, harbored no clinical mental handicap. He presented the retard song-and-dance to doctors, psychiatrists, and the warehouse staff in order that his mooching off the state remain sanctioned. The CNA’s tolerated Bobby’s subhuman behavior as a symptom of his “condition,” but his aversion to soap and his lack of pissing protocols weren’t a part of any act. Apparently his “older sisters” at the bordello where I suspect he had been raised neglected to teach him reasonable habits concerning his hygiene and bodily functions.

Righteous CNA’s would have gently reprimanded Mort and taught him the accepted manner of peeing. Then Mort and others like him may have been able to preserve any last bastion of dignity that they still possessed after some asswipe relative had dumped them in this particular warehouse. Instead the CNA’s laughingly mocked him and became angry when they discovered one of his puddles. I heard one CNA tell him to his face that she wished he would “die already.” He responded by shaking his fist and calling her a “no-good damn monkey.”

But they readily deferred to Bobby and always treated him with respect. They never jumped on him when he had an “accident” or because he stank; they were constantly tripping over themselves to be politically correct. Luckily this strategy didn’t require common sense because most of the CNA’s were bankrupt in that department. And they saw themselves in filthy and profoundly stupid lowlifes.

2 Responses to “But He Can’t Help It”

  1. Kelly Says:

    That is bizarre. I can’t quite wrap my head around the inconsistencies. That’s really funny that Mort called you Polack. I guess he had to stick you in one pigeonhole or another. Hrmph. 🙂 K

  2. Baby Boy Says:

    I have cerebral palsy, and live in a group home, and I pee on the floor all the time, whenever I get the urge, and watch my house parent have to mop the yellow puddle, and it gets me excited to watch, I wet my bed every night and make sure everything gets soaked, so the staff has to clean the mattress and do a lot of laundry, and some times I get a urge to masturbate in my wet sheets. And they think I do it on accident. Sometimes when I go to day care I get a urge to go in the bathroom and hold the roll of toilet paper between my legs, pissing on it until until it gets so soaked that nobody can use it.

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