Story of Our Operation is Cutting Tale

Recusant Voice of "The Infinite? for Saturn, _
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Editor: The Rev. Mr. Dr. ALPHIA OMEGA HART, 1-2, D.D., D.Scn„ F.Scn., B.Scn., HCA, HDA.
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Last month, we told our readers about same processing we got. Had these super-duper techniques, as interpreted by one of the latest $500-plus liberators of the world, been as effective as touted, this auditorial might have had a different subject.

(To explain, when we use the term "we", it refers to your "Green Eyeshade" and the body he uses.)

So, relax, please, while we tell you about a type of so-called therapy which may be quite strange to some of you. And if you don't want to read about The Bliitor's operation, may we suggest you turn to another page?

Some say we were trying to escape work; others even have been unkind enough to suggest we strained a gut trying to lift Scientology out of the gut-ter. But these, we think, are of the ilk who find pmuthog the only reason for existence.

Not being rich, influential, or insured, we availed ourselves of a peculiar privilege accorded those who made it safe for the AAabmb Boys to breed another war. We applied for, and were granted, admission to a veterans' hospital.

The visiting Er. -----, D. San., Who thinks we needled him a bit unfairly may sympathize with the hospital surgeon who surveyed gloatingly his field of conquest a couple hours after we'd been decked in the super-atrocity of haberdashery: a maternity jacket and spiral-legged shorts called pajamas. An ill-fitting thing called a 'robe" -completed the sartorial degeneration.

And while on the subject of degeneration, we mustn't lose sight of the fact we were being examined by a surgeon. As he probed, pushed, listened, twisted, and yanked here and there, he opened, conversationally;

"What do you do?"

Between induced coughs and the other physical gymnastics through which only a doctor can put his victim, we managed to say: "We publish a magazine," which was immediately net with: 'All right, cough again. What kind of a magazine? Harder, now. Again. What kind of a magazine did you say you published?"

Maybe it was the devil in us, or it may have been that last punch. "Oh, we take pokes at philosophy, and psychotherapy, and..."

We never finished. We had punched a button. There was a violent explosion. "What do you know of psychotherapy?" and before he could dig us tw ice m ore in the area being excavated, added: "Do you know Who's qualified to cure people with psychotherapy?"

"Sure!" we said, with all the confidence gained through the hours and hours of taped and live lectures we'd heard at the various and sundry courses from which we'd graduated with more degrees than this angry sadist before us ever had imagined. "If you put it that way, nobody is!"

All of you who try to treat people, or work with than for the alleviation of any ailment--if you don't have accepted credentials approved by the A.M.A.--are a bunch of dirty skunks, and probably can't sleep nights because of troubled consciences. That's what we were told, anyway, as one of the "Approved" punctuated his 30-minute diatribe with a and a push and a yank and a tlirgol here and there ablaut the anatomy. Not being surgeons, we weren't quite sure how many of these pushes, punches, et cetera, were necessary and which were meant to impress us with our unimportance and our "sin against humanity", but since most of them seemed foreign to the area about to undergo surgery, we were a bit suspicious. Needless to say, after discovering what type of a volcano our harmless few words had set off, we weren't exploding much even had we been given an opportunity. Besides, if this guy was to do the actual cutting, we didn't want to foster any idea that he night be doing humanity a favor by carving us into four or more segments.

One thing we did discover: if this surgeon reflects the attitude of most starched coats in the veterans' hospitals, half the buildings and patients might be eliminated within weeks by changing to doctors less psychotic on .the subject of mental healing. In the one ward in which we recuperated (yes, the operation was a success), we discovered that half the cases were suffering from neuroses concerning their own ills. Cigarets and chewing gun from well-meaning service organizatioss, won't help a man Who has found his only security in a hospital chow line. What he needs is someone to tell his troubles to to explain why he's ill, and what he'd like to do if he ever gets well. Each has his own troubles, and to uention your own pains is an open invitation for more gory details from the more experienced sufferers. Ward attendants and nurses are about as sympathetic as a hungry alligator. They have a job to do which is, primarily, to dodge responsibility. If you. ask a ward-boy for an aspirin, he promises to tell the nurse, the nurse tells the head nurse, the head nurse speaks to the dietician, and the dietician promises to take it up With the doctor. The doctor's out, or busy--and if they remember your request next day, the need for the aspirin long since has disappeared.

Another thing about a hospital: They're probably the dirtiest places in the w orld. If a m iner, or laborer, or even a White collar worker takes a bath, his cleanliness shines out brightly for hours. In a hospital, 15 minutes after you've had a shower, or been rubbed down by one of the wet rag jockeys, another wet rag jockey or nurse w ith a suspicious glint in his/her eyes, barks: "When did you have a bath last?" One even mode a habit of aalciog: 'When did you have your last bath?" If you chastise then about this, they seen quite offended at any suggestion their hospital may be dirty, or that their powers of observation may be a bit blunted.

We've neard of persons who goto hospitals and "enjoy it". MO didn't. We. were gone ten days, and we think it was the most miserable ten days we spent since the last time we were in &hospital. Nor did coming home make things mud' easier--except to improve the environnent. At times we are almost convinced that a may have sewed up a r:71TeTc==rs inside us just to punish us for our rash stateomet during the initial examination. lett we asked fbr no sympathy— and sympathy we've been getting. In addition, there are dozens of well- meaning friends who think you rash for being up so soon after an operation, and will expound for hours on the dire warnings given than by their own doctors About "taking it easy". limn they learn we drove 110 miles in rain sevenrdays after being zipped up with thread, they absolutely know weare inviting a return trip to the hospital.. EVen those Who should know about putting your attention on a painful area in order to reduce the hurt forget i in the heat of passing out cautions, that there ever was such a thing as Scientology, or Dianetics, or any of the other quit-babying-yourself ologies. When we came back to work ten minutes after driving home fraa the hospital, they indelicately assured us that we were 'positively crazy".

Which we guess we are. We've been called insane before—and by an expert Who should know all about it.

Our big regret was that we took a stack of books with is to study during our convalescence—and read none of them. We Bound it impossible to concentrate on books with nine other men in the same ward clamoring for attention --and when this was not forthcoming in sufficient quantity, just clamoring. Nor do we expect to make up for it at home, either. If you could see the pile of nail that cluttered our desk when we walked in...! That, Triend, was when we began to think we could use just a little sympathy—plus a couple secretaries.


The H-Bomb Boys are covering up their red faces with a lot of security tags. On the recent "air drop", despite expensive preparations and much fanfare, they missed their target more than two miles. At this rate, andusing this timopirweapon, it may get to Where generals can't get far enough behind the lines to die in bed, or become presidents.