Thursday, September 3, 2009

Don't Call Your Physical Therapist A Physical "Terrorist."

Don't call your physical therapist a physical "terrorist." They've heard it before, and they won't be amused. They are professionals, well-trained and skilled in their techniques. They have a plan to hurt you, cause you serious pain, so why start out by annoying them by calling them names?

If you want to call names out, wait till they start working you over, then call out "Sweet Jesus, Save Me." Or maybe just "Please, stop, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

My most recent x-ray shows my broken bones are healing well, and it is time for me to move forward. So I started physical therapy on Monday. A sweet, young, soft-spoken female had me lay on a table in a private room, made sure I had all the pillows in the world surrounding me -- like a luxury hotel but with cheap linens and small rooms, no private bath. Then she gently touched my hideous grotesque foot which I mostly keep hidden inside a large boot to spare the public the sickening view of this swollen appendage at the bottom of my leg.

She examined that grotesque foot and never once grimaced. She did not vomit or turn her head away in disgust. She pretended it was like every other foot she'd ever seen. I looked away. Then she gently touched portions -- the toes, the bottom, the sides. Ran something like a feather down my legs, each side, to make sure I still had feeling. She was so nice. Or so I thought. Then after a tiny little bit of gentle movement, she iced the foot and I was on my way.

Day Two: same nice, quiet, young, soft-spoken female had me lay down on a bench. Not quite so much with the pillows this time, and now I was out in the open. Apparently my insurance landed me in the charity ward because I was lined up with a bunch of other poor suffering folks, bench after bench, out in the open, everyone forced to hear every detail of everyone else's suffering. But she did much the same things: gentle little movements.

Then suddenly she stood up and called out a name. I'm not sure what it was, but it must have been something like "Butch," or "Spike," or "Lucca," because some enormous guy came out of nowhere, charging towards me like a tank while I desperately tried to hide under the pillows. I swear he had on a gas-station attendant uniform but the embroidered company logo said "Blackwater," instead of "Shell."

Then he took over and began what I can only assume they must call the "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques." He would twist my pathetic little wounded foot in one direction until I cried out in pain and he would ask "How does that feel?" And I would say "It hurts, it hurts." Then he would smile, and twist the foot to the other side, and say "Do you feel anything now?" And I would say "It hurts, it hurts."

Just kidding. Kind of. Most of it's true, except for the Blackwater name on his uniform. That part is just kidding.

But think about it. Think about American employees, hundreds of thousands of them that we have dispersed all over the world, trained and highly paid to murder, torture, injure other people. To deliberately imprison, tie up, cuff, chain people then break their legs and say "How does that feel," and smile when the victim says "It hurts, it hurts, please stop."

What change? Let's tell Obama to bring all the contractors home. Fire their asses and put them out of business. Make it illegal for anyone to run mercenary squads out of our country, even if the business owner is a "devout Christian" like Eric Prince claims to be. Even Christian murderers and sadists must be subject to the law. Stop them.

No comments:

Post a Comment