Like a Post-It Note, but far less convenient.

Last weekend, Ben and I went to the hospital to visit a friend of mine. He hadn't met this friend yet, and looking back on it, I was probably a bit of a nozzle for making him meet her in the hospital of all places (I mean, come on, you meet up at the movies, or for dinner, but while someone is strapped to an IV and has a commode chair somewhere within a five foot radius? Man, I am an asshole). However, I did promise to go visit her and bring her some good iced tea, and she really wanted to meet Ben, so there we were.

When we arrived at her room, she was just getting settled back into her bed, so Ben and I waited outside of the room, which was right near the nurses' station. We carried on a light conversation as a person we can only naturally assume was a patient's loved one approached the station to talk to the male nurse standing there. We weren't really paying attention to their conversation, what with being involved in our own "Where do you want to eat?" "I don't know. Where do you want to eat?" Yalta Conference.

That is, until we heard the Patient's Loved One (heretofore called the PLO, but not for the more obvious historical connotation) express concern over the patient's constipation.

To which, of course, skilled and couth male nurse replied, "Oh yeah. I'm going to give him some milk of magnesia, two enemas, and some prune juice."

Ben and I froze, physically and verbally. His face was stuck in the middle of an explosive laughter expression, while mine probably took on the Look of Chastisement (TM) (which usually comes with the Tone of Condescension(TM) and Finger Wag of Humility(TM) Accesory Packs, by the by).

But, wait! It gets better.

In the round mirror posted at all major corners of hospital floors to avoid likely collisions, I can see the befuddled look on the PLO's face. After a few moments, he says to the nurse, "Really? I didn't think it would do much good, what with all the other stuff you're putting up there."

We match PLO's look with our own, except we look anywhere but in his direction. A beat goes by.

"No, no," the nurse corrects, "He drinks the prune juice." Another beat, as super nurse signs a chart and declares, "I'm gonna clean him out!"

At this point, either I, or Ben, or both of us must pass out from holding in the hysterics. Luckily, my friend was comfortably placed back in her bed, so we rushed into her room to excitedly whisper to her tales of constipation and education.

Afterwards, we kept reminding each other that one of us needed to write this story down, because it was so fucking hysterical (well, at least to us. I realize a lot gets lost in translation). More than once this week, a conversation was ended simply with "No, no... he drinks the prune juice."

This happened almost a week ago, so in fear of losing it altogether, I decided to post it here. Also, how could I not share this jaunty hospital tale with you fine-ass people?

Yeah, that's what I thought.