Wednesday, March 31, 2004
How does the world turn? Why is everything the way it is? Those are both excellent questions. Incidentally, they can both be answered by turning to your local chicken farmer. His extensive knowledge of all things chicken serves only to increase his worldly reliability. Chickens act as a metaphor for the human race, while the farmer acts as an avatar for God. God houses us, feeds us, and every so often he needs to grab one of us by the neck, tie us down over a stump, and hack our head off. Much like chickens, when we get our heads lopped of, there is much of the running around and screaming, in addition to the flailing of limbs.
This is just the type of sad story that we try to avoid, here at St. Joe’s. Our inmates are top-notch, and we’re lucky enough to have the crazier ones club and eat the sanest of the bunch. This prevents any sort of oganised uprising, or revolt. The crazier ones then get to consume the saner ones dosages of meds, which also help to keep them happy and sedated. And, as of you know, a happy and sedated crazy person makes for a happy doctor. The one problem that our saner inmates seem to face prior to their death, is growing accustomed to the lack of women.
June 15th, 1953
The television was a superb idea, as it allows us to control every one of our inmates, at any time. One simple announcement of the playing of a Jerry Lewis movie will attract every inmate to the television room in under five minutes. Their favourite seems to be Casablanca, and it’s as if they would watch that movie over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. It’s quite amusing, their little mouths hanging open, drool collecting in puddles on the floor. That’s when they’re the easiest to catch.
One large net handles the task, especially if the television time is after the sedative distribution period. As you can see from the logs, the captain is quite adept, and very skilled at his job. He also likes long walk on the beach, and picnic lunches in the park. His favourite cheese type is romano. He has told me, on multiple occasions that the romano goes very well with a fully bodied red wine, when accented with a tart fois gras. His crackers of choice are, of course, Ritz. Buttery, as well as light and crispy, these crackers embody all that is rich and buttery.
Along the same line, we find that many of our patients do not realize the obvious. We’ve done countless studies involving the hitting of a patient repeatedly with a large, wooden club. Most times, the patient exhibits no sign that he or she notices the club. Now, the fact that response to external stimulii is one of the basic rules for life, and most of our patients can not even exibit this trait, is disoncerting. Regardless, we press on.
June 18th, 1953
A woman unlike any other woman has also found her way into our little collective. She won’t reveal her name, and doesn’t talk to any of us. I have, however, on occasion, spotted her looking at some of us. Her raven black hair shines in the light, setting off her fair-as-milk skin. A smile that could coax the Gods from the heavans lights up her face every so often, but, regrettably solely during the interactions with a few of the saner people, most of who will most likely be dead soon in any case. During the times she is caught looking at us, when any attempt to make eye contact is made, she averts her gaze post-haste.
June 21st, 1953
Dr. Sumka has died today, tragically, and without his legs. None of the inmates will confess to the crime, and many have began to act even more dranged, if such a thing is possible. I’m beginning to fear my job slightly, for the first time in recorded history. One, rather large and ‘in charge’ patient approached me today, asking me to tell him who took his telephone. Understandably, I was at a loss, as our patients are not permitted to have any personal effects. Upon asking around, you can understand my mortification at learning that his ‘phone’ was actually Dr. Sumka’s legs. Apparently Dr. Sumka didn’t appreciate working sans woman, so he took it upon himself to create a ‘woman’ out of one of the inmates. Why he did that is between him and God.
I have yet to discover the woman-from-a-few-days-ago’s name, and she’s still sadly distant. When looking at her, I feel like the world is perfect; well, that it could be perfect. There’s one small problem. On her left hand, she’s wearing a ring on her finger. She must be married to someone on the outside, or has convinced herself that she is. This saddens me, although luckILy enough all it takes is one look from her to lift my heart once again.
But I must get back to my duties, the large and ‘in charge’ patient is on his way.
July 2nd, 1953
A certain large and ‘in charge’ patient has been quelled for the time being. I succeeded on upping his Valium perscription tenfold, and he seems to be taking it well. Aside from the drooling, of course (a large pan has all but taken care of that problem). Dr. Sumka’s death, though glaringly, and horrifically obvious to me, still eludes the investigators and detectives. I have debated telling them what I know, but have so far kept my mouth shut, for fear of certain patients exacting their revenge upon my fleshy body.
So, the wheels keep turning, and the butter keeps churning. Speaking of butter, some of our inmates have requested craft and entertainment sessions. I’ve considered a few proposals, and I must say, some of them actually look promising. This I will get into in a few days.
The woman-from-a-few-days-ago’s name no longer eludes me, however, I shall keep her name to myself. Should these writings ever fall into the wrong hands, the printing of her name could cause her undue hostility, etc. (Mailboxes, Etc.). She is the shining star that brightens my days, and the glowing moon that softly illumes my nights. The way her raven hair bounces, just above her shoulders when she walks, and her hips sway in that hypnotic rythem that they do, I find it hard to contain myself. But I cannot talk to her, nor make myaffections apparent. That blasted ring on her finger somehow manages to keep my at bay. How much longer will its effectiveness last? Only time, can tell, and only God knows why. Only God.
July 15th, 1953
Today was the dreaded take-fingerprints-from-the-crazy-people day. Every year, I grow to loath this day more and more. The one-with-the-large-eyes always thinks that by giving his fingerprinrts, we’re somehow committing every one of his decendants to slavery, and the sex-trade. If he only knew. I was spit on today, once more. I think some got in my eye. I fear that I may have contracted a disease via the spit, but all of the doctors here have repeatedly reassured me that all is well, and I have nothing to fear. ‘Nothing to fear but fear itself’, isn’t that how the old saying goes?
I’m beginning to feel my humanity slip away. Today, during the craft session, I nearly lost my compsure, and beat an elderly woman to death. She kept asking me ‘What time is it?’ ‘What time is it?’ ‘What time is it?’ Over, and over, and over again. I answered her the first few times, but stopped after six times. I did keep my wits about me, and managed to remain static. Today they were making mouse blankets, which are just small quilted blankets. These are perfect for our short-minded patients, and our heavilly-medicated patients. The super-absorbant cotton that they use to quilt with really abosrbs the drool nicely. A problem looks to be on the horizon, in that we’re rapidly running out of our stores of Valium. The supply company has been hit by a terrorist attack, and has subsequently been forced to cease production. This decision was made after it was revealed that 234 workers perished in the silo explosion. Tragic news indeed.
July 21st, 1953
We have run out of Valium. For the last few weeks, we’ve been getting by by mixing morphine, children’s vitamins, and spider webs into make-shift Valium. I’m not sure that the patients have ntoiced, however the large and ‘in charge’ man has been threatening me as of late. He keeps asking me if he can make a telephone call, and then eyeing my legs. It’s quite disconcerting to say the least, especially when considering what happened to poor Dr. Sumka. I’ve resolved to have a pair of leaded pants constructed especially for this occasion. The scary part is, that I don’t believe they’ll help. I’m going to request they have iron insterts, however that will most likely cause their cost to skyrocket, and break me financially. It’s sad to think that I place such little value on my legs, and their remaining in operating condition.
I wonder how long our half-baked Valium concocoction will last, and if any of the patients will become sick due to the spider webs. A few have mentioned that they can not feel their tongues, or thoats, but that appears to be the extent of their complaints for now. In fact, many of them are happy upon seeing the new and ‘many shaped Valium pills’. They really enjoy the shapes and colours of the children’s vitamins. I can’t say I blame them.
August 1st, 1953
This is hell. The entire establishment has been uprooted, and thrown on its side. The Valium concoction ceased working nearly a week ago, and since then the patients have been running amok. I thank myself every day that I rallied to have the extra-strength walls built around the command center/staff lounge. We’ve been holed up here since the 27th of July, and fear that perhaps we will never regain control.
I wonder what happened to the woman-from-a-few-days-ago in the mess. I desperately pray to every God, that he or she keep her safe, deliver us from evil, and lead us not into temptation. But, perhaps temptation is what we need. I highly doubt that however. I believe that I shall head up a search to find out what happened to her in the next few days, depending on how the situation progresses. I am quite afeared for my life.
August 11th , 1953
So, far, it does appear that the woman-from-a-few-days-ago did manage to keep herself out of the fray. She had been out of my sight for quite a while, although she was recovered and is back in my line of sight. The place is an utter, and complete mess. A measure of calm has descended over the assylum however, as most of the larger and stornger inmates murdered and either ate, or sold the weaker ones. I believe my biologist friend Dr. Wilmhauser would find this a fascinating study of species interaction, and individual dominance and subjugation.
The other doctors and I are holed up in what used to be the drug closet, made huge by the sudden lack of drug shelves lining its walls. We’ve been forced to severely ration what little food we have left, and we fear that in the near future, we’ll be required to either partake of the laboratory beasts, or each other. I, for one, pray that things never get that bad. Should they, however, I’m fully prepared to savour the flesh of my fellow doctors. Perhaps I am too prepared?
August 23rd, 1953
Thankfully, the inmates seem to have reached an equilibrium, and the riots have ceased. We have been subsisting on laboratory mice and rats for the last week, and our supply of them has run out completely. As a side note, the tail of a rat roasted over a bunsen burner has a very nice, nutty taste. Dr. VanSheimer has been admiring my girth for the past two days, and I believe that this is the main reason for my coming to this decision. I am going to venture out into the assylum proper, and reconnoiter the current situation. Quite frankly I will be glad to escape Dr. Van Sheimer’s lusting eyes, and the moans of pleasure constantly emitting from Drs. Wilmarson and Petty.
Should my body be rent at the hands of the assylum inhabitants, this journal will be all that I leave behind, as my desk lamp has already perished, I am sure. While that is a sobering thought, I believe I shall imbide a small amount of morphine before I venture out into the assylum (to steady my knees should I have to run). Wish me luck, the reader of this journal. And if I my heart still beats as you read this, come and pat me on the back. Alas, the time has come. Anon.
August 25th, 1953
Current events dictate that this entry will be shorter than usual, as we are busy repairing the assylum. My endeavour out of the drug closet proved more than successful, as most of the inhabitants appeared to be asleep during my trip. The finest part is that they happened to be sleeping in the cells, so all that was required of me was to close and lock the doors. To my discontent, it appeared that one (or more) of the inmates chewed through the main power line providing this assylum with the ardent pulse of electricity. A few of the doctors are now retrofitting the connection to allow for the amorous flow of electricity to re-embrace the assylum in its loving grasp (To our horror, it appears that the entire support staff was eaten by the inmates, as we found numerous slabs of meat in the refrigerator, as well as a mystery sandwich slice).
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