After nearly two weeks of rest and relaxation, at a luxurious facility,  as Annie referred to it, I was allowed to leave the hospital.   I was no longer lumpy and blown up like a jiffy pop pan but I had a large incision in my stomach which was not healed  and I was barely able to get around.   I found out the only reason, I was able to leave was because Annie claimed to have an RN license.   She did have an RN but it did not stand for Registered Nurse, it stood for Rotten and Nasty.

It was a piece of paper that proclaimed, license to be rotten and nasty to anyone anywhere anytime.   She claimed she ordered it off from the back of a comic book she borrowed from my brother Sigh when she was visiting him in her time machine and forgot to return.   She also had a license to fart.

After two weeks of being away from home I was anxious to return there no matter how great Annie claimed the hospital to be.  I had planned on Grandfather coming with our car to take me home but my life would be so boring if Grandfather came to get me in an ordinary vehicle.

Even worse was the fact the nurse who accompanied me out to my ride acted as if she loaded patients every day into a recliner, tied to a wagon which was being pulled by a poop shaped golf cart.   Annie had her pink horned rimmed  rhinestones studded glasses with no lenses in them on, she sat on Spam’s lap fooling around with the radio trying to find a good song.  Spam rode shot gun (Duh-Wayne drove).  Spam had come along because she said it was a nice relaxing drive.

That part was true, it was a nice relaxing drive, but a long one.   A longer one if the drive was made in a golf cart, and not relaxing at all if you are riding in a wet recliner attached to the golf cart with a wagon, with the poop stench coming from the golf cart and a fart smell coming from Annie, Duh-Wayne and Spam playing a game they called ‘road trip farts’, and it’s raining.

It seemed to take forever, but we finally arrived home.   Annie yanked the wet blanket off me, handed me an umbrella, then jumped into my arms and forced to me carry her upstairs even though I was not allowed to lift over five pounds and Annie was way over that.

I made it in the door and saw Annie Jr. sitting on Asa’s lap coloring in his coloring book.    “Hi Annie Jr.” I said.

Annie Jr. looked at me and screamed.   “A ghost!  Oh my god a ghost. Help Asa, help!”

“Annie Jr. it’s me Slam.” I said.   “I’m not a ghost!”

“Yes you are!” Annie Jr. screamed.  “Mom-mom said you died.”

I sighed deeply the last time I spent a significant time in the hospital, due to Annie, she had also told all the other animals I died.   “Annie Jr. you were at the hospital every day.   You know I didn’t die.”

Annie Jr. clung to Asa, scared to death of me;  fearing I was a ghost.   I shook my head and headed to the other room.

Grandfather had purchased a recliner for me.   It was easier for me to get in and out of than the bed.   Annie had eaten a bunch of crackers in it before she had come to get me and it looked like an entire case of crumbs were scattered into the seat.   Grandfather was shoveling them off into a pile in the corner.

Finally, I was all settled in my chair.   “Comfy,” Annie yelled  into my face, her breath was foul.   It was like moldy bones and unwashed body hair.

My stomach was having a hard time dealing with stink and riding home in the fartmobile was bad enough.   “Annie!  Your breath!” I screamed.

“Sorry Slam,” Annie said.   She took a bottle from the pocket of her apron.   Yes she was wearing an apron and some sort of dust cap on her head, a 50’s style dress, and a pair of nylons with runs in them and a pair of slippers.   I didn’t ask.

She squirted whatever was in the bottle into her mouth.  “Better, Slam?” Annie yelled again blowing, like she was trying to toot a tuba, right into my face.

I gagged it was a million times worse.    “No! Annie what is that?”   I screamed.   I grabbed the bottle.   ‘Annie’s breath spray.   Natural Body smell…moldy bones and unwashed body hair.’ It read.

‘Figures,’ I thought as I handed the bottle back.   I fanned the stink.

“Wanna squirt?”   Annie asked.

“No Annie, but it’s really hot in here.”  I said.

“Hot?  How do you mean?”  she looked at me vaguely.

“Hot Annie!?! Turn the heat off, open a window, turn on a fan!”

She brought me  sweater.   I knew it was going to be a rough recovery.

The next morning Annie was laying on the arm of the recliner, playing with her ipad.   Annie Jr. was sitting on the other side of the room wearing a ghost buster uniform pointing some sort of ghost gun at me and he was glaring.    “Annie Jr., it is really me, I am not a ghost. Don’t be afraid.”

“I ain’t fraid of no ghosties,” Annie Jr. hissed but would not take the ghost gun off me nor would he come near me.   He occasionally snapped a picture of me on his cell phone and Annie was sharing  them on the internet with the caption, ‘real live ghost in our house; the demon slam.’

I saw it several times on facebook because Annie kept tagging me in them.   It was just a picture of me sitting in my recliner, using my computer while Annie sat next to me.   People kept liking it and sharing it.    It was on twitter too.   Donald Trump liked it and retweeted it captioned, ‘Slamn Witch Hunt.’   This was all in a matter of minutes.

I almost missed it because of the viral paranormal (paraidiot) post, but I did see the recipe Annie tagged me in with the caption, ‘dinner?’.  It was a recipe for chicken riggies. Since I was not able to stand long enough to cook, I figured I couldn’t be choosey.

I looked at Annie who was still sitting on the arm of my chair and said,  “okay” and “follow the recipe!!!!”;  since she had made me boxed mac and cheese the day before and had added the cheese powder to the water and boiled it with the macaroni.

Then  “Make sure grandfather helps you turning the stove on,”   Annie had a habit of just starting a log fire in the oven instead of just turning on the stove top.

Annie replied, “Eye I Captrain.”    She logged into my account and posted my verbal reply then logged in under her account and replied to it.

Around four in the afternoon, I waited to start smelling dinner cooking.   I knew Annie was working on it because she had posted a picture of herself in an old Mc Donald’s uniform and a Burger King hat holding a meat clever.   It said, “Cooking up some Slam dinner!” She was also banging pots and pans around.   I heard the blender, mixer, food processor, can opener, coffee grinder and electric knife going.   I sighed wondering who was doing the dishes, because Annie’s ‘the dog has been pitching in and helping’ was not reassuring.

Finally Annie posted a picture of dinner.   It looked fantastic.   I was impressed.   It was on a paper plate, I guessed no one was washing the dishes but that was okay.   I was looking forward to that paper plate full of riggies.   I still was not able to smell them.

Since Annie was still in the kitchen I replied, on her post.   “looks good Annie, I will take some!”

I should have known, I can predict it better than 10.99 a minute psychic, I should have known.   But I fell right in it;  both feet, head first.   Annie walked in, still wearing her uniform and hat, she was covered in blood, feathers all over her paws, gooey brown crumbs of some sort, covering her whiskers and she was wearing those rhinestone glasses with no lenses.

In her hand is a plate, it has raw rotted meat, mixed with crumbled up fig newtons.   “Annie what is THAT?” I screamed refusing to even take the plate.

“Chicken figgies!’ Annie replied.   “But I didn’t have any chicken so I had to use pigeons.”

I shook my head.   “You didn’t even cook it,” I screamed again as if it even made a difference.

“Grandfather wouldn’t turn the stove on,” Annie screamed back.

“Did you ask him?” I asked, knowing full well she hadn’t.

“How can you be so stupid?  I swear that surgery messed up your ever loving mind.”   Annie screamed.   “I can not even believe you asked that. ”  A long pause, then, “Well?”

“Well what?” I asked.

“So you aren’t eating this?” Annie asked.

“No, Annie, jesus!”

“Well would your HIND ASS want something else then, since she is too royal to eat something I slaved over an open fire for?”  Annie sneered.

I wasn’t sure how to even respond since Annie acted so out of control.  Then she became all sweet and loving.   “I have some tuna fish I can mix with some mayo and put on those fresh rolls grandfather bought,” Annie said.  “I can put a little slice of onion on it.”

“You’ll change your bloody shirt and wash the feathers off your hands?” I ventured.

“Of course, Slammie Sweetie.”   I watched her come out of the bathroom several minutes later freshly bathed and clean clothes.   She was back to the 50’s outfit this time a poodle skirt and saddle shoes with bobbie socks.

I heard her singing in the kitchen as she made the sandwich for me.   She came in the room, and I saw the fresh roll and lettuce and tomato along with the onion.   There was a fresh napkin.   It looked really good and my stomach growled.

I picked up the sandwich and took a bite.   I should have known, I should have known.   It was bound to happen and I jumped right in; both feet butt first.   It wasn’t tuna fish.

I spit the mouth full out on the plate and screamed, “Annie that is NOT tuna!”

“It is too,” Annie screamed. She ran to the kitchen and came back with a can.   “T-u-n-a,” she spelled out then handed me the can.

“Tuna and liver cat food Annie,” I read.

Grandfather wound up ordering pizza again.   Annie screamed excitedly when she learned we were having take out again and decided we all needed to watch a movie.   She chose one based on the fact the lead character was named Annie just like her and she had a pig just like Aunt Din-yell did and she had a writer laid up in her house just like she had a blogger laid up in her house.

I sighed.   I was only one day into my recovering at home and it was misery already.   I was picturing life with my number one fan.   Annie Nightingale was bad enough.

 

 

 

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