jester journals

Weird Ramblings from a Warped Mind

People Are Idiots

There ain’t no easy way to say it… people are idiots. Now maybe not all of them, but I’m starting to believe that there is more that IS than AIN’T. Not a day goes by that I don’t see something or read something and the first thing that pops in my mind is “Well, what did you expect? He was an idiot.” And I was born, raised, and live in the South, but this goes a LONG way past the “bless his heart” thing.

So I had to go to the free clinic last week (and by “free clinic” I mean the one run by the Veteran’s Affairs… the VA Clinic). They bring me in every so often and check me out and see what kinda meds need testing and put me on them. Or that’s MY take anyway.

Now I have to admit, it’s a great program. No cost to the veteran… free meds… free tire rotation… etc. Oh wait… scratch that last one. That’s Goodyear. But anyway… you go in to the free clinic, they check you out, give ya some meds, and send you on your way. And in the long run, our grocery bill has come WAY down, because I’m taking so many pills for so much stuff that I don’t have any appetite left for any real food. Kind of a win/win situation. Or at least in theory. I don’t know what half the stuff is for or why I take it, but the majority seems to be working. I was on a pill that “inhibits the development of a third nipple” and to this DAY I still only have two nipples. So you can’t argue with success.

But anyway… so I went to the free clinic last week to get stuck, probed, prodded, fondled, etc… THE WORKS! And my standard answer is always “OK.” “How is your eyesight?” “OK.” “How is your smell?” “OK.” So half the time I’m not paying attention to what they are really saying or asking me. I’m just “there.”

And because this is a satellite clinic away from the major VA hospital, the pharmacy is not located on-site. The doc orders my meds and they come in the mail. And today was the day. THE day. Meds in the mail day. I’m all out dancing by the mailbox waiting on the mailman who, when he sees me dancing, won’t approach until I go back in the house.

But anyway… OWN (‘Ol Weird Nancy) went and got the mail out of the box and brought it in to me in the house so I could open it. (It’s just amazing at the small things in life that bring me such pleasure… like opening the mail). So I tore into my package from the free clinic and there is a baggie of patches enclosed.

I’m not a smoker. Never have been. But that is what I associate the patches with. I tried to think back to my conversation with the doc, but I don’t recall her asking if I would like to give up smoking.

So, though confused, I’ll get back to that part. I started reading the label on the baggie of patches. My name and info is on there. And then… bigger than DAY… I read the directions. In large, all CAPS, BOLD, BLACK letters are the instructions:


Now… I will be the first to admit that I have done some… let’s just say… less than smart… things in my lifetime. And sadly, time and space does not permit me to even begin to list them here. But suffice to say I have never… NEVER… NOT EVER… thought I was so dim-witted that I would have to have a reminder to not place a medical patch on my non-scrotal skin.

It reminds me that most medicine bottles now tell you to take one tablet orally twice a day. I wonder how many people were sticking them up their nose or in their ears before someone thought to tell them they had to be taken orally?

And you know… you just KNOW… that somebody has received these patches in the past, before they put that warning on there, and thought that their scrotal skin would be the best place to stick one.

Yep… people are idiots.

And that’s MY take.