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“I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous- everyone hasn’t met me yet.’- the late, great Rodney Dangerfield; Back in the days when I spent too much of my waking hours in the newsroom, at least I profited from one small perk. I got to eavesdrop over the ASPS. In Journalism Speak, ASPS stands for Annoying Scratchy Police Scanner. (Photo caption: A while ago, a man was reported high-stepping it away from our local Henry Hold The Mayo Newhall Mammarial Hospital in the middle lane of a major highway. He was wearing nothing but a hospital gown, open in the back.)

I marvel that I could engage in a perfectly clear conversation on a cell phone the size of a small box of raisins to a friend in Australia and yet, science has yet to invent a non-drag-your-fingernails-down-a-chalkboard police-band radio.

I remember one particular 5150. That’s the code name for “Psychological Rescue,” which is the polite term for crazy person. I think I could use a 5150 every 20 minutes, thank you.

“SSSSSHHHKKKKRRREEEEEEEEEE!!!” squawked the radio. The dispatcher’s voice seemed like it originated from outside the galaxy. “Available units… Fifty-one fifty… Beeeeeeeeeepppp… Ssshhkrrreeeeeppp…” This is followed by 20 minutes of vexatious beepings, squeaks and interrupting voices that sound like someone has Don Knotts unmentionable naughty parts in a pair of vice grips and is squeezing them.

“Man running northbound on I-5 from Santa Enchirito Valley Kervorkian Hospital…”

What can I say. We’re a community of low expectations.

This late night 5150 surely offers a vast canvas of unanswered questions. I envisioned a daft fellow in a flowered and ill-fitting hospital gown, high-stepping it down the emergency drive-way, butt cheeks flapping in the wind.

Which, if memory serves me well, was an old Linda Rohnstadt song. Wait. Let me get my guitar:

FIRST VERSE: “And he left me, butt cheeks flappin’ — in the wind.

(35 minutes of Linda Rohnstadt Poor Victim Am I boo-hoo yodeling)

SECOND VERSE: “When you’re in love, it ain’t a sin, to leave your butt cheeks, flappin’ — in the wind…”

Flapping Butt Cheeks.

Boy howdy.

You’d have to be the absolute lowest Native American on the totem pole to get stuck with a handle like that one.

I’m guessing you didn’t get to sit in on many war councils.

“Well, FBC,” asks the chief. “Any thoughts? What are you planning for war paint? Preparation H in the new, saucy pastel line?”

Snicker, snicker, snicker, around the campfire.

What happened?

Did the guy get his bill?

Was a divorcee/nurse with low-self esteem attempting to give mt 5150 buddy an unasked-for hemorrhoidal search with rubber gloves she had been storing in the freezer?

I must be in a country/western kind of mood tonight because that reminds of the old Hank Williams Jr. lyric:

“…that little gal from the Dairy Queen

gave me a search from above.

Varneenita used her gloves of rubber,

she stored in freezer of our love…

Ka-twang twang twang twang…

Man running from the hospital.

As if we hadn’t all considered it at some point in our lives.

Man running from relationship.

As if we hadn’t all considered it at some point in our lives.

Man Running From Relationship.

Another good Indian name.

Why was he running?

Vampires amuck in the blood bank?

Out of boredom was he forced to read 800 out-of-date Powerboat Quarterly Magazines — in Spanish — in the Emergency Room while legions of illegal aliens elbowed their way past?

Lost a bet and was facing circumcision at 45?

Hm.

Facing Circumcision at 45.

A very fetching and unique Indian name.

Nah. That’d be stretching it.

I never heard if they caught the guy. I hope not. My Santa Clarita has been inundated with dour yuppies the last several years. I think it would give the valley an edge if we had some urban myth of some ghost-like chap and his fluttering heiniecheeks popping out of the bushes to terrorize the soccer moms.

I’m not a doctor, even though that’s what it used to say on my personal checks. But I’ve a question.

If you’re able to run a sub-3-minute mile from E.R., doesn’t that indicate that maybe — just maybe —you didn’t need to be in the hospital in the first place?

 

John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net