It’s been a few weeks since my surgery, and I’m doing just fine. I’m already operating heavy machinery—our blender weighs a ton and I need a cocktail. I’m in physical therapy now, and my shoulder is definitely coming along, since I didn’t want to leave it at home.
When I walked into the clinic, there were five or six other people there. One was shrugging her shoulders 30 times in a row, another was standing on one foot throwing a ball against a net and another was pushing against the wall, seemingly trying to hold it up. It was like I was in a loony bin, which I suppose is not a politically correct term. I should have said “nut house.”
The assistant started by putting a heat pack on my shoulder for 10 minutes, then he put an ice pack on me for another 10 minutes. If a low-pressure system had blown through the room, there would have been a hailstorm. Then the physical therapist took my arm and bent my shoulder into an acute angle. I winced in pain, she smiled a little, and while she had me in this position she got my credit card information, including the expiration date and the three-digit code. I started to confess some things that I am not proud of, and then I made up some things I didn’t even do, but am not proud what I thought of.
After I stopped weeping, she tried to make it up to me by massaging the bones in my neck and shoulder area, but since I’m unbearably ticklish, I start giggling uncontrollably. I laughed, I cried, I was hot, I was cold. It was like going through menopause while watching “The Notebook” at the same time.
When she left the room, I looked around at the other inmates and said in a loud whisper, “Don’t you people see what’s going on here? They’re TORTURING us! Didn’t you ever see ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest?’ We’ve got to get out of here!” They just kept shrugging their shoulders and throwing their balls around.
I was about to make a break for it when the physical therapist returned and hooked me up to this machine that delivers little shocks to the affected area to stimulate it electrically. She asked me some questions, like, “How are you doing so far,” and “Do you think you would recommend our program to others?” And depending on my answer, I got a bigger or smaller shock.
I don’t have one of these machines at home, so I improvised by trying to shock my shoulder with spurious allegations that I am wire-tapping it. At the physical therapist’s office, there are electrodes hanging all over it, so the allegations may actually be true. My shoulder and I have discussed the whole wire-tapping thing. Why would anyone waste their time wire-tapping Trump Tower? This is someone who broadcasts even his dopiest thoughts to millions of people on an hourly, even minutely basis.
There is a bird who Tweets nonstop right outside my window at home. It tweets about 50 times a minute, every minute of the day, every bird-brained idea that it has, and rarely has it said anything useful. Certainly the same could be said about me, but I beat you to it, didn’t I?
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