For the third time in a week I’ve been kicked out of a hospital. I’m not a troublesmith so I’m not sure why this keeps happening.
First time they said it was because I was done being born whatever that means, then because I was too orange for them to help, and now because I’m too healthy. Is it me?
I think they knew I was a reporter when the whoms-whom of great historical figures started coming in to visit me. Aunts, uncles, even the fabled grandma came by to check on my stay.
It was a nice rest for me since I hadn’t had a single vacation since starting my career some 36-hours earlier. I got tons of sleep and came out fully 20% heavier than when I went in. It’s a lot like going on a cruise I’m told, except a lot more expensive and without all the comfort.
So now it’s back to my apprenticeship as a writer. I don’t know what that means but I hope that type of ship is more like a cruise. I don’t think it is, but everybody around me seems pretty happy about me coming home and that’s good enough for me.
Thanks to those who came and visited me and sent their email well-wishes for my speedy-like recovery and quick-like return home.
If you red the news yesterday (or any other color, it’s okay) you know I’ve been going around to a bunch of hospitals, kind of to review them.
I told my boss it was about exhaustion, but I was really doing a review. I’ve been to three already in my life and met well over a dozen doctors, so I’m very sharp on all this.
Hospitals are mean. They have doctors and nurses who don’t like you. They poke you with needles, attach you to machines and hoses and when they finally leave you alone they put a machine next to you to beep a lot so you’ll never forget where you are.
What a great place to be sick! They have all kinds of experts, really fancy machines, a very big building (like a million times bigger than anything I’ve ever seen) and everybody is nice.
Well, I fast decided I was done with the peekaboo department, or ICU as they kept saying. I decided to leave and go to the part where healthier kids are. All I had to do was gain 20% body mass, be awake more than 5-minutes an hour, stop throwing up after every meal, breathe okay by myself and keep my pulse above 100. Boy, doctors are really picky.
I already made up my mind to leave, so I did enough of that stuff to convince them to check me downstairs. As of now my weight is okay, my jaundice is better, my throwing up is improved but not all better, and my breathing and pulse are just fine. I played their game just like they wanted and they fell for it, HA HA now I’m down here!
I can’t go home yet, even though the machine says I’m pretty okay. My tummy still has to do better and I have to prove I can keep liquid, weight and oxygen.
Boy, already the things I have to do to be a good reporter for this paper.
Just days after his arrival at Perplexing Times, staff writer Dominic Benjamin buckled under the pressures of our fast-paced environment and thus required medical attention.
Mr. Benjamin suffered loss of apetite, dehydration caused by lack of apetite, jaundice caused by dehydration, and weight loss caused by all of the above. He was rushed to the nearest hospital.
At the city hospital it was determined he’d lost too much weight and that his vitals were dangerously low, so he was transferred by ambulance to the Children’s Hospital & Regional Medical Center. How cool is that? He got to ride in an ambulance! I haven’t even done that and I’m like 140 times older than him.
Once at Children’s he was relieved to learn that the doctors are not in fact children, but rather adults.
He was assessed and placed into intensive care. The doctors felt the matter was very serious in part because the beep-beep machine they hooked him up to kept alarming something about falling oxygen levels and dangerous something-or-other.
Dominic didn’t seem very much to enjoy the countless blood draws, the packing-style tape on his face, the IV’s nor any of the diodes, sensors and meters they had to attach to him. What he reported disliking most was the catheter, though only second to the spinal tap. Both of which are allegedly fairly uncomfortable. His monitored vital signs concured that it was indeed unpleasant for him.
The list of tests ordered on Mr. Babyman (I just said Mr. Benjamin, didn’t I? I think I did) was pretty exhaustive.
As of writing this it looks like he has to hang out in Intensive Care until they figure out what’s causing the erratic breathing, low heart rate and poor oxygen-blood mix. It’s no fun for me either, I was just getting used to him being around the office.
He’s got all this new and exciting experience about him and all he does is sleep. Hopefully he’ll wake up more soon and he can feel better.
Just to think, he’s met like a dozen doctors, twenty-plus nurses, had dozens of medical tests and toured three hospitals all in the course of just a couple days. He must be the luckiest kid alive.*
Dad’s been telling Mom he’s just fine and that the doctors don’t know what they’re doing, but Mom doesn’t believe him. Apparently Dad just says things to make her feel more comfortable. It’s wierd though, she hasn’t looked this uncomfortable since before she popped Dominic out in the first place.
So until he can put some of that weight back on and address all those other blah-dee-blah “health concerns” I guess I’ll once again be running the paper by myself.
Mom and Dad seem pretty upset about this story so I guess I’ll keep an eye on the subject, let you guys know any developments as they happen too. If you have any well wishes you’d like to send feel free to do so using the contact link up above, I’ll make sure he gets your message.
And if you’re reading this from your bed little Dominic, get well soon buddy, we all love you and miss you very much.
I’d just got settled down in my new house after Mom evicted me from my old place when we had a secret costume spy night.
At first I didn’t want to play along because I thought I’d be embarrassed showing up in a costume, but I thought since I was new the other guys would be mad if I didn’t. It was okay though because I had a really good super-spy costume already picked out.
I went to the spy party as Jaundice, Billy-Rueben Jaundice. They said I speld it wrong, they said it was “bilirubin” but that’s not a real name so I think I’m right.
My costume was really good. I had the telltale yellow-orange skin that meant I was of the Jaundice family, and the neon p’jammy lights that meant my bilirubin count was so high it needed to be medically treated.
Oh, it was good. The brother-reporter-guys were so jealous because they both dressed up as older brother-reporter guys while I had glowing bedclothes.
I didn’t have a lot of fun though. I was really tired and my tummy didn’t feel so good. That and stuff was really loud, bright and confusing.
The party had to end short. I think I was drinking too much because I kept throwing up. The brothers went to bed and after a bunch of phone calls to doctors and stuff we now gotta leave for the hospital. Wasn’t I just there like yesterday? Oh well, gotta go now.
Today, without any prior provocation, brother Patrick decided he was a cowboy of the highest sort and promptly paraded his horse throughout our home. His trek was violent and comical but his cowboy status remains in question.
The only figures respected throughout the entirety of cowboy history are the Lone Ranger, the Rhinestone Cowboy, and of course, Rodeo Clowns. Patrick is more clown than Rodeo Clown and more Lone Deranger than Ranger, which leaves only the Rhinestone Cowboy, but I’m still not convinced.
First of all, where are his rhinestones? He’s got no diamond rings, fancy watch, nor Bedazzler (TM) encrusted suade jacket. I’m not exactly hip to the ins and outs of calf wranglin’ but I think you need to sparkle to be a Rhinestone anything.
Secondly, he lacks any cows. Unless you count Mama (who admittedly has been pretty beefy since smuggling that new baby guy) or myself (who may be “fatted” but clearly ain’t a “calf”) he’s coming up with a goose egg for his steer driving head count. Show me a cowless cowboy and I’ll show you my odd brother.
Even though he loubly crashed through our home like a Tasmanian devil, his horse was largely innocent. Even lean horses (“skin and bones”) are made up of more than a smiling head on a broomstick-gaunt pole. Patrick insists he’s a cowboy and, pending independant audit, we’ll let that claim stand.
Everybody has a favorite person they look like, even me. Ever since I was young — well I guess I’m still young if you ask some people — but I mean younger than I am now. Anyway, people tell me all the time I look like Kevin Spacey.
Friends, family, strangers and even people on the phone tell me I look like him. “Yeah, I know; I get that a lot.”
The stuff we have in common is easy to see. We both have full heads of long, lush hair; we both have two eyes, a mouth and a nose. His eyebrows are less invisible than mine but, other than that we look just the same, at least as far as I can tell.
I hope we don’t get each others letters too much. I think he’s older than me so maybe people can tell us apart okay, but I’m pretty wrinkly (especially for my age). He’s kind of wrinkly too.
Well, there it was, my first report after being officially “born” into this office. Not too exciting I know, but it’s a start.
So long for now everybody. I’m Dominic Benjamin and that’s news to me.
Last night a man wearing a bunny mask was spotted in an area home attempting to steal candy and chocolate covered cookies claiming he was the Easter Bunny and that he had simply returned to reclaim his forgotten sweets.
The perpetrator, whose identity has not been disclosed, was spotted in the living room wearing an exceptionally lifelike mask, already holding the candy in his hands. The suspect had already consumed part of a cookie and was futily attempting to unwrap the seasonal and chocolates.
According to authorities Sgt. Mama and lead investigator Daddy-O, the disguise was very thorough but lacked a fluffy tail and trademark bunnyskin coat. Once identified as an imposter the subject was taken into custody without incident.
The thief is believed to be a candy addict who was lured into a life of sugar-frenzied crime after being encouraged to experiment with sweets earlier this month.
Experts suggest that “Chocolate can be a wonderful mood-altering remedy, taken in moderation and not abused,” but those afflicted by its pursuit tell a different tale. Their story is one of the delicious pursuit of non-controlled substances like sucrose, high-fructose corn syrup, and even the most controversial of confections, cocoa.
Damages just from this incident alone are estimated in the high dozen-cent range. Formal charges have not yet been filed.
As a respected journalist in a world of ever-diminishing standards of professional integrity it is now my responsibility to amend and retract an earlier story reported erroneously.
Last week I reported on the incredible growing man being ready for bed. At the time of reporting two leading experts within the household were quoted as saying that he was in fact ready. As it turns out they were only experts in being wrong. Based on their defective testimony, I wrote a fine but completely defective article.
Apparently the “bed” idea was more of a trial than a transition. The trial has now concluded and the verdict is: guilty. During the test period a number of problems surfaced.
Head Trauma. Unlike a crib, the bed affords greater opportunity to thrash about in a manner that can be harmful. When I see an opportunity I seize it, in this case unfortunately.
Unchecked Gravity. Whether intentional or not, those in beds have greater access to the floor via gravity acceleration. Usually it’s fine but sometimes it’s no good. I’m trying to learn to jump on the bed but without a total surrounding of tall bars it’s a nasty spill waiting to happen, then to happen again and again.
Nocturnal Wanderings. To the chagrin of my attendants, me going to bed is no longer the final word, nor do I require assistance to get up in the morning. It’s no surprise to find me playing with a spatula in the living room ten minutes after being tucked in. Likewise at three in the darkness I may be found wandering around the bathroom trying to unplug the nightlight. While all these factors were considered prior to the “to-bed” move, it seems they weren’t fully thought through — not unlike my writing that first article on such baseless testimony. Perhaps another day of trial is in order, but the question of readiness has been asked and answered. The official answer was “Nuh-uh.”
If you’re looking for something fun and fantastic to do this summery season I’ve got one more you can add to your list. Hiking is for pack mules, kiting is for aeronaughts, but porch-camping is for everyone.
Porch-camping is chock full of advantages with narry a disadvantage in sight. Sound too good to be true? This isn’t a get rich quick scheme, it’s just camping made easy.
Want to know more? Sink whatever teeth you have into this:
Conveniently Located. Go in the front door of your home, walk through it and out the back door. Congratulations, you’ve arrived, and Oh, Baby, how!
Feeless. Forget campgrounds that charge you as much as ten whole dollars a night just to sleep on the ground. You’ve got your own ground right there already included in your rent or mortgage.
Accommodating. Don’t you hate it when you go camping and forget stuff? I’ve never been “real” camping but, man, can I imagine the frustration. Worry your gigantic head no more, all the conveniences of home are mere yards away if you’re American and just meters if you’re not.
Plenty of Discomfort. Camping is all about roughing it and that need not change just because a pane or two of sliding glass separates you from the snug comforts of civilized reality. Go ahead and be uncomfortable if that enhances your experience. Use some rocks for a pillow or put a bunch of sticks under your bedding. Hey, whatever gets you through the night (uncomfortably).
While your parents or indeed even the local fire marshall may put the kebosh on your cooking or bonfire, rest easy with the knowledge your microwave, central heating, and loo are a mere hop, skip, and jump away.
So for sun-filled fun, whether on school days or weekends, keep porch-camping in mind. It’s easy, convenient, cheap and quite nearly a little bit of fun.
I ain’t Jonah, my brother isn’t Baron Munchausen and this surely ain’t no whale. This is a dinosaur and he didn’t eat us, we climbed in through the door along his starboard ribs. It’s not about dinner, we’re here to play.
Dinosaurs were invented over 100 years ago by the pranksters of paleontology and popularized by master filmsmith Speilberg in his Jurassic Park, but it wasn’t until they were perfected by the tireless engineers — Seriously, you should see their cars, no tires, just metal on pavement, sparks like crazy; doesn’t seem safe to me. But I digress. — at Fisher Price that dinosaurs got any good.
Imagine a piñata, but instead of 2-10 pounds of candy and toys, it has hundreds of pounds of toys. Take it a step further and imagine you don’t have to crack it with a bat, though you can if you so desire. Anytime you want it’s there for your enjoyment. Complete the vision with a clumsy steering wheel and you’ll start to comprehend what I’ve got.
Another thing really exciting is that not only is it stocked with toys (as I’ve reported) but also permits the entrance of random people, even reporters (hence the report). This isn’t a forbidden fruit, it’s just a fruit. It’s getting to have your cake and slap it too. It’s anticipation conveniently coupled with gratification. Go in bored, stay in-thralled, and come out exhausted. If you could order a dinosaur to your own custom specifications, wouldn’t it be about exactly like this? Sure, you might add air conditioning and power windows, but this is awfully close to perfection, though a base model..
If you’re going about your day and your path is crossed by an oversized PVC dinosaur, don’t be afraid to enter. What waits inside is not a miserable demise from jurassichloric acid, but rather a well stocked playland of enrapturous delight.