Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

Harry Morton was not happy that Lindsay Lohan’s unconscious body, not to mention her exposed breast, was being publicly wheeled through a common area of the emergency room. He expected onlookers and photographers and a crowd to gather around his famous girlfriend. But oddly, no one noticed. Everyone seemed to be in their own world of pain and misery, doubled over, holding their arms, blood on shirts, head bandages. Lindsay Lohan with her long black matted hair with one arm dangling off the side of the gurney as it was pushed attracted on one’s attention.

Mario wheeled the gurney into a side room and pulled the white curtain that was suspended on an aluminum track hanging from the ceiling. Harry walked through the curtain.

“The doctor will be here in a minute. What happened?” asked Mario.

“Well, she slipped and hurt her arm and then…” said Harry.

Mario glanced at the girl’s arms. The left one dangling off the side looked bruised and slighted bent.

“This arm?” asked Mario.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“She does not have any bruise to her head. Any idea why she is unconscious?” asked Mario.

“Well. Well, you see, she was, well, she was drinking and got a little sloppy. And then in the bathroom she fell. She was unsteady. And that’s when she hurt her arm. She said her arm hurt and she wanted something to get rid of the pain,” said Harry.

“And you are? A relation?” asked Mario knowing full well he was not any relation. By this point, Mario had recognized the girl on the gurney. It was Lindsay Lohan. It was an easy ID once you spent a moment with her. But quite frankly, the girl looked so filthy and trashy that one would miss that a famous and glamorous movie star was lying unconscious on this gurney. Also, Harry, the idiot, brought Lindsay into the wrong emergency room.

“Just a friend. I’m just a friend,” said Harry.

“OK. I will get the doctor,” said Mario as he left through the curtain leaving Harry Morton and Lindsay Lohan alone.

Harry glanced around and saw he had a few minutes. He quickly searched Lindsay’s jean pockets. Her left pocket is where he found it. Lindsay had taken to carrying around the small solid gold vile Harry had given her for the purpose of storing an “on the road” stash of cocaine. In the mad rush to get Lindsay to the car and then to the hospital, he had forgotten all about it. Carrying the unconscious Lindsay Lohan was not as easy as one would think. Though slight, her sizeable breasts and the huge head of hair made the whole move quite awkward. And he was afraid he further damaged the arm when Harry through her into the back seat of his Mercedes.

Harry removed the gold vile filled with cocaine from Lindsay’s left jean pocket and tucked it into his own pocket. Anything else he forget? Think fast, thought Harry.

Dr. Sarah Sheehan walked through the curtain. She was wearing a white gown which was open exposing black slacks and a navy blue blouse, as well as black Nike tennis shoes.

“Hello. I am Doctor Sheehan. So I got some of the story. What did she take for her pain?” asked Dr. Sheehan as she took Lindsay Lohan’s pulse from Lindsay’s left arm that dangled off the side. As Dr. Sheehan took the pulse she visually examined the bruises.

“Well, doc, I told her that they were strong, you know,” said Harry. Should he tell the doctor? And how would he explain how the pills were there. Should he tell her? Damn. Harry had to think fast. But he was good at this. He was good at this.

To Be Continued.

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Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part One

The clock on the emergency room wall read 2:32. That was 2:32 on Sunday morning, September 17th, 2006. This was one of two emergency rooms of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. One emergency room was for the publicity shy emergencies, which were celebrities, the other was for everyone else. But when Harry Morton made a turn onto George Burns Road off Beverly Boulevard, he mistakenly followed the directions to the wrong emergency room, the one for the common folk like you and me. In the back seat of Harry’s black Mercedes Benz SUV was Lindsay Morgan Lohan. Lindsay was unconscious and breathing heavily. The heavy breathing was comforting to Harry. At least Lindsay was breathing. She was alive. And here he was at one of the best medical facilities on the planet earth, so this was all going to be OK. But when Harry pulled up to the front of the emergency room, and ran inside to announce what he had in the back seat, he immediately realized it was the wrong emergency room, the one that was crowded and open and without any security barriers protecting late night celebrity visits.

What the two male nurses found in the back seat of Harry’s car was a white girl with long black hair in a white bra, the strap hanging off her right shoulder. The girl was wearing fayed blue jeans, the zipper half-way pulled up exposing pink underpants. The girl was lying on her side and the long disheveled black hair was splayed all over her face and back seat. The girl’s right arm was hanging off the seat, her left arm pinned under her motionless body.

One of the nurses. Mario, took a pulse and then started to drag the body out of the car. The male nurses on employ were large and could pretty much handle any unconscious body, no matter how large and heavy. But this one was maybe 100 pounds, at best, much of the weight located in the large breasts. The girl’s feet were bare and appeared to have dried vomit on them. As they dragged the girl out of the back seat by pulling on her legs, the hair fell back off the girl’s face. Mario saw an open mouth with dried vomit on the cheeks and eyes that were oddly half open, though the girl was clearly unconscious.

“Is she OK?” asked Harry.

“I do not know,” said Mario.

Mario picked up the girl who was top heavy and with the assistance of the other male nurse, they placed the unconscious girl on a gurney. Mario was a tad rough with the maneuver, purposely, seeing if the girl could be jostled awake. But it did not happen. She was as limp and cooked cappelini, and when the girl settled on her back on the gurney, her bra partially fell off exposing her right breast, which bounced like Jello as Mario pushed the gurney quickly through the emergency room sliding glass doors. Harry Morton followed from behind.

To Be Continued.

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Iraq Plus Katrina Equals No Legs And A Trailer In The Mud

Harold Horn had lost his legs. It was a roadside bomb south of Mosul in Iraq, and his legs were immediately blasted into a million bits of bone and blood and muscle. The mess made it appear to Harold’s fellow Marines that Harold was surely dead. But Harold raised his head and waved his arm asking for help before slipping into a coma. That was back in July of 2005. Harold’s family in New Orleans went to Walter Reed Hospital to stand vigil while the doctors patched Harold together in 32 separate operations to keep Harold alive. The doctors told Harriet, Harold’s mother, that Harold’s coma was a good thing because it permitted the doctors to operate and operate and operate more. Losing two legs, particularly Harold’s two big football legs, is not an easy thing to deal with, medically, that is. But the hard work paid off. On Christmas Eve, 2005, Harold awoke from his coma to discover himself in a hospital room with three other Marines. Each marine had lost some appendage, an arm, a leg, one had lost his lower jaw. Harold had lost two appendages, two legs. But he felt lucky. Harold thought the guy without his lower jaw was in really bad shape.

In the first week of August 2006, Harold left Walter Reed Hospital and flew by commercial jet with Harriet, his mother, back to New Orleans where Harriet was staying in a trailer with her husband, Jim. Harold learned for the first time that his home, the house he grew up in, was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, and that his mother and father had been living in a trailer for almost a year.

Harold was wheeled up to the trailer by Harriet. Harold’s father, Jim, was off trying to get some paid work down at one of the suburban retail stores.

“Mom, stop,” said Harold. Harriet stopped pushing the wheelchair.

“What is it, dear,” said Harriet.

“I just want to look at my new home,” said Harold.

“Oh, this is not your new home. We’re not staying here,” said Harriet.

“How am I going to get into the trailer? Those steps,” asked Harold.

“Oh, jeez. I didn’t think of that. I will go get George. He’s a big man who helps out. Stay here, Harold,” said Harriet as she shuffled off over the dirt to a distant trailer leaving Harold alone in his wheelchair on a dirt patch.

Harold noticed that the dirt was wet and that the wheels of his chair were sinking into the mud. He looked back up at the trailer, his new home. Harold Horn gave his two legs for a righteous cause, he thought. And God took away his parents home and gave them a trailer in the mud. Harold tried not to get angry. His father once told him to always act better than you feel. Harold felt angry, so he tried real hard to not let it reach the surface. He tried hard to look at the whole awful mess and turn it into a beautiful thing. A trailer in the mud. That can be beautiful, Harold thought.

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An Anorexic Nicole Ritchie Soils Her Bed And Is Happy

Nicole Ritchie sat on the edge of the bed in her West Los Angeles condominium apartment overlooking Sunset Boulevard. She awoke because her bed was wet and she was curious. She raised herself and was surprised that her bed was soiled with a moist brown pool maybe a foot in diameter. She was alone, thank god, she thought, but Nicole was concerned because her panties were all wet and brown too. Nicole was not wearing any bra because, well, why should she; she had no breasts, glands which had long since disappeared because of Nicole’s strict diet.

The brown liquid made a trail down Nicole’s bony left leg which dangled off the side of her bed along with her right bony leg which, oddly, she did not feel. Nicole took her right hand and massaged the upper right thigh, if that is what you could call it, of her right leg to see if she could feel anything. She couldn’t. Nicole moved her right ankle and toes, as she did with her left side as well, and she was gratified that she still had control of her legs. Nicole was not worried about the lack of feeling. Nicole concluded that the sense of touch was a sign of muscle which added weight, which is something she did not want. So possibly getting rid of a sense of touch removed a quarter of a pound or so from her body. This was a good thing, Nicole thought to herself. Nicole wondered if thoughts had weight.

Nicole looked down at her belly. As Nicole got thinner and thinner, she noticed that her belly started to form a small ball outward. She had read somewhere on one of the anorexia websites that this was a gas ball and a normal phase anorexics go through before the ball goes away. Well, Nicole was certainly not an anorexic even though everyone kept telling her she had a problem. Jeez, she was just thin, and people reveal their jealous natures in all sorts of ways. Though she did like checking out anorexics on websites, seeing their photos and comparing herself to them. They looked just a little too thin for Nicole. Anyway, the gas ball belly bothered Nicole, and so she decided she was just not going to eat anything today. Maybe a Tums to get rid of the gas. She knew that one Tums had a few calories, which bothered her. But if it reduced the gas ball, it was worth it. Just one, though. Don’t want to go nuts

Nicole smiled that she was still sitting in her own shit on the bed. The odor had permeated the room, but this did not trouble Nicole. She was happy to know that the brown crap, which she also noticed had blood in it, or something red, was out of her body, lightening her load still more. Sitting in her own shit was not uncomfortable because she had little or no feeling in her buttocks, which looked more like two bone blades protruding at the base of her spine.

Nicole wondered how many pounds her skeleton weighed. If she could know that, then just add a few pounds to that figure for the brain, some skin and she guessed a few organs, and that would be the ideal weight. How much did her brain weigh? Not too much, she hoped.

Nicole reached over to the pack of Marlboro Lights on the side of her bed and removed a cigarette. Before lighting the cigarette, she examined the box. There was no information about calories or any other nutritional information on the pack of Marlboros. Nicole wondered if cigarette smoke had weight or calories. She decided to take the risk, and she lit the cigarette and took a very deep intake of hot smoke into her lungs. Actually, it was not a deep intake. Nicole had lost the ability to take a deep breath. But the nicotine immediately hit her bloodstream and did something odd. It made Nicole very sleepy. Nicole fell back into the soiled bed and looked up at the ceiling. He eyes closed and she fell into a very very deep sleep, her hand holding the cigarette fell to her side, the burning end luckily facing upwards, hopefully avoiding a fire. This was not a normal sleep; more like an exhausted body attempting to conserve what little fuel remained. The brain has protein, so Nicole’s body started using some of that to keep the heart pumping. But it did not prevent Nicole from dreaming. Nicole dreamed of her cigarette starting a fire on her bed and buring her to a crisp. In her dream, Nicole Ritchie wondered what the weight of her charred remains would be.

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Pamela Anderson Meets Nicole Ritchie In The Health Club Shower Room – Part Two

Continued From Yesterday.

Pamela Anderson glanced at Nicole Ritchie’s naked body. Nicole was holding the health club white towel in her left hand. It almost appeared as if the towel had more weight and substance than Nicole. To Pamela, Nicole appeared like a skeleton dangling from a medical school classroom. The only difference between the skeleton and Nicole was that the skeleton is not inherently disgusting. Nicole Ritchie’s body, if that is what you could call it, was so wasted, it was as if someone had spray painted her muscles on, and then spray painted again Nicole’s skin. There was virtually no meat on Nicole Ritchie. The only thing preventing Nicole from getting thinner were the actually bones themselves. Pamela wondered how Nicole could even stand, or her heart pump. There was no room for any internal organs. At that moment Pamela noticed that the veins in Nicole’s neck were filling with blood and then disappearing, and then filling again and then disappearing. Nicole’s inner circulatory system was clearly visible through silk-thin skin. There was no muscle, Pamela concluded, but for the working heart muscle, which Pamela was certain would not survive Nicole Ritchie’s sick starvation diet. She gave Nicole maybe a few months unles she got some kind of intervention. Does anyone love this poor thing?

“Did you say you were doing weights?” asked Pamela.

“Yeah,” said Nicole, whose left leg buckled briefly, causing Nicole to almost stumble. But Nicole was able to recover using the few hidden inner muscles or bones to right herself.

Nicole Ritchie lifting weights, thought Pamela, was not possible. Nicole could hardly hold the bath towel.

“Weights, huh. Like what are you lifting?’ asked Pamela.

“Oh god, I’m not lifting them. I just look at them,” said Nicole as she kept examining herself in the mirror, with this haunting smile, almost dreamlike, the kind of smile you might see on a person who had accepted death and was about to shut their eyes and say goodbye.

Nicole just looks at the weights. Did Pamela Anderson hear that correctly? Wasn’t there anyone at the health club to help this poor sick thing? Nicole was no longer a human female. In fact, Nicole Ritchie had no breasts, no distinguishing characteristics or body parts that would indicate sex or even species at this point. Nicole Ritchie was a specimen for an anthropologist dusting off bones in the desert. Pamela had remembered the cute little Nicole standing next to the Paris Hilton on that TV show back when Nicole was the pudgy one. She was adorable then. Now Nicole Ritchie was harder to look at than the Elephant Man or Michael Jackson. Pamela decided to suggest a late-night snack, but she would tread gingerly.

“You want to go to a Starbucks, Nicole? There’s one right around the corner,” said Pamela.

“Oh, no. No. I ‘m going to take a shower. I need to take a shower and clean off the sweat I have built up. I smell. I have this odor. Sweat odor,” said Nicole in her dream-like state.

Yeah, she had an odor alright, a sickly odor of death, as if the bacteria in what was left of Nicole’s intestines had already started feeding on her innards as death meat. At some point soon Nicole would blow up into a death gas ball caused by the chewing bacteria inside her.

“I have to go. Take care of yourself, Nicole. Take care of yourself,” said Pamela Anderson as she turned and walked out of the shower.

Nicole Anderson did not say goodbye; she did not say anything. But Nicole did drag herself to the shower and struggled to turn the shower knob on. But the force to turn the shower on was too great for her. So Nicole Ritchie just stood in the open shower stall standing under the drip of water that occurred every few seconds from the shower head. But given Nicole Ritchie’s bony existence, that was all that was necessary. At least that is what Nicole thought as she smiled and licked the shower water off her lips, one drip at a time.

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