Disaster

The patient is suffering from constipation. We’ve tried with prunes and bran, but nothing helps. He wears striped clothes and refuses to bend over when he’s in the shower. He is trying to pay TV subscription with cigarettes. He talks to his coworkers in codes, so that the guards wouldn’t understand what he’s saying. He claims he’s innocent and that he’s done everything in accordance with the Cabbage Production Protocol.

The patient keeps thinking of his working environment as some kind of a festival. Being asked about his role in the work organization, he proudly says his circus act involves “deep-shit swimming”.

The patient regularly takes medications. Every morning he pops a tranquilizer on an empty stomach, has some valerian root drops before opening an e-mail and an anxiolytic every time the phone rings. By lunchbreak, the patient is in a comatose state, which is colloquially known as “adjustment to the working atmosphere”.

During a diagnostic examination, the patient is found to have an extremely high concentration of toxic elements in his organism: Eh (Empty Head), Ag (Aggression), In (Indolence), Ar (Arrogance), Ig (Ignorance), Am (Amorality) and Un (Unkindness). It seems that these toxins have been accumulating in his liver for years and that the condition is terminal.

The patient is prone to lies and frauds. While he was waiting for the doctor’s examination, he recruited three other patients who were there in the waiting room with him, a nurse and her colleague from the doctor’s office next door in a pyramid scheme, which he made up right there on the spot. He sold the doctor his own stethoscope and a bunch of referral forms that haven’t been used since 1963.

The patient’s problem is highly complex. He sees complications in everything. Every time he responds to a simple question, he introduces all kinds of unexpected variables. For instance, when he is asked about his favorite music, he responds by mentioning the effect of Earth’s rotation on the price of Andalusian green peas if we observe it through a red plastic wrap. It seems nothing can be simple. 

The patients says his voyage will first take him to Inflated City, which is followed by a tour of the No Spine, and, after many other equally interesting locations, such as Toilet Town, Pukepolis, Butthole Bay or Vomitville, ends with a crazy weekend at Asshole Meeting Point.

At the very mention of bureaucracy, the patient suddenly has digestion problems, so he locks himself up in the toilet. Since he is inside for ages, we try to talk to him and ask him to come out. “I can’t!” he yells. “What do you mean, you can’t?” we ask. And he shouts back: “I’m one paper short!”