Over-educated liberals who trip over themselves to exhibit political correctness while disregarding reality routinely challenge victim blaming. Ironically, alleged victims are often anxious to find fault with those weaker than themselves, particularly the elderly or infirm—kind of like a linebacker beating up a six-year-old.
Many shitworkers at major urban medical facilities take disproportionate pride in their menial positions. These nano-wits delude themselves that a job requiring a white uniform and the use of bona fide medical gadgets must also demand extraordinary skill, and magically transform them into a “medical professional” worthy of awe and respect. Legions of these simple oafs infested the rehab hospital.
My doctors had ordered that a lab technician draw my blood on a daily basis. One morning an obese young woman lumbered up to my bed and lazily deadpanned her plan to steal a sample of my hemoglobin as if she read from a script. I lie virtually unable to move in my bed and weakly grunted my reply—I didn’t mean to be rude but I had recently suffered a stroke and all. She dragged with her the funk of a stuffy bedroom. Her bird’s-nest-Afro attracted lint as a magnet draws metal shavings, and dandruff unevenly dusted the shoulders of her unlaundered uniform. Months of shuffling under her weight had rendered the soles of her scuffed shoes visibly worn. Apparently the shoes were too tight to accommodate her bloated ankles, or maybe she considered herself too damn important to waste time and energy stepping into them like an adult. Highly skilled medical professional that she was, she wore her standard white nurse’s shoes like clogs, her fat heels crushing the hind leather.
She set a small plastic carrier holding several vials of blood on the overbed table. Then she mumbled something, looked around and patted herself down. She finally produced a mangy-looking rubber tourniquet and clumsily tied it around my upper arm. Then her sausage digits fumbled to assemble what was essentially an empty vial with a needle protruding from it. She half-heartedly patted my arm on the inside of my elbow joint, then scrunched her eyes shut—which didn’t exactly bolster my confidence in her abilities—and jammed the needle into my flesh. After several excruciating minutes of trying to find a vein by rooting the needle around, she angrily glared into my eyes and spat, “Sir, you not coop’ratin’. You not makin’ your veins stand up.”
I had no idea I could consciously manipulate my veins. But of course, I’m no medical professional.