FUCK. A. BUNCHA. WAL-MART!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Soooooo, I go to drop off one script and pick up another that'd already been called in from Good Doctor's office (the spine surgeon who more than repaired all that Dr. Jackass had fucked-up in '06!), and they tell me "ONE HOUR" until the new one will be ready. No problem, I brought a book (another kind and magnanimous gift of Seattle Dan & Tammy, a fascinating study called "The Beautiful Cigar Girl" by Daniel Stashower, about Edgar Allan Poe and his quest to solve the beastly murder of a poor girl working in a smoke-shop in 19th-Century New York), I was prepared to wait an hour. That's not a ridiculous amount of time for a major pharmacy to take in filling a script.

But after that hour and three cigarettes had passed, I go back into the store, to find out that it's STILL NOT DONE. One of the cashier/clerks in the pharmacy remarked that they couldn't find one of my THREE scripts, to which I replied, there shouldn't BE three scripts, just the TWO, but she ignored me outright. So I sit down on that hard-as-fuck metal bench and wait. And wait. And ask WHYYYYYY IS IT TAKING SO FUCKING LONG?!?!?!?! but without cussing. "We're workin' on it!" was the only answer that I got, over and over and OVER again.

SEVENTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES OF THIS HORSESHIT. I talked to the pharmacist, the assistant pharmacist, and four different clerks. "WE'RE WORKIN' ON IT!" was all that I could get.

N0, I didn't go postal on the motherfuckers, because there's always more of THEM than there are of ME, and you KNOW how they stereotype you when you're on pain meds, whether or not you're recovering from the SHEER MEDICAL HELL that I was put through in September. I'm the one who's ordering the step-downs in dosage of my meds, 'cause I'M the one who wants to salvage as many of my brain cells as I can. THEY STILL TREAT YOU LIKE A MED-SEEKING JUNKIE, just like the cocksucking carpetbagging residents & interns of Charity who LOATHED THE POOR PEOPLE WHOM THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO *HELP.* That's why I stopped using these ignorant republicunt hillbillies up here in Hillbilly Hell-Hole, among other reasons that I have more than enumerated already. They've been ringside spectators for all three of the fucking nightmarish surgeries that I've been through in the past couple of years, but they STILL fucked-up my meds and put me through irrevocable TORMENT by fucking my scripts UP (y'ever hadda soak in a tub full of icewater and ice packs in order to sate the screaming/burning hellfire in your joints/connective tissues? OODLES of fun!) and TREATED ME LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING MED-SEEKING JUNKIE.

How fucking stupid was I to think that WAL-MART, THE WORLD-EATING CORPORATION OF ARKIES FROM HELL, would do BETTER?!?!?!? I assumed that they'd at least have some kind of "corporate code of conduct" to keep them from sneering down their fucking noses at a woman in EXCRUCIATING PHYSICAL PAIN. Not so much.

Oh, they're plenty saccharine-sweet when they're bullshitting you about why they haven't done their jobs right, but they still DON'T GIVE A FUCK. Shouldn't that be part of the fucking JOB REQUIREMENTS TO WORK IN *ANY* FUCKING PHARMACY?!?!?!?!?! Shoulda woulda coulda, I know. The real world don't give a fuck.

So, after TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES OF PURE STUPIDITY AND MALFEASANCE, because they didn't LISTEN TO ME or ACTUALLY EXAMINE THEIR SHITTY-ASS COMPUTER SOFTWARE, they try to send me home WITH DRUGS THAT I WASN'T THERE TO GET.

I shit y'all not.

I had already picked up my regular fibro/arthritis meds on Monday, but their stupid fucking computer didn't acknowledge that I'd picked them up. Ultrams are like baby tylenol to me, but allegedly, depending on what idiot in what doctor's office or pharmacy that you listen to, they are the "hot" new street drug. Don't know why, I've never even gotten a WHIFF of a buzz off of them, and they're NOT narcotics. Nonetheless, a free bottle of 180 pills would have a street value of $480-900, depending on the market. If I knew how to sell drugs, and hadn't actually NEEDED the evil shit (oxycontins) that I was on at Charity, I'd still own my house, even if it was mostly in the Gulf of Mexico by now.

Anyway, this is where the ANNTI IS A FUCKING MOW-RAHN part kicks in:

I went back in there, knowing that there's no way that my doctor's office, even on their busiest day, would've called in a DUPLICATE SCRIPT for something that I'd just gotten filled on MONDAY, on the same week's FRIDAY, to show the pharmacist that I wasn't supposed to have those pills.

No, I wasn't being a goody-goody, I didn't want them to bill Medicare/Medicaid TWICE for the same script in a WEEK, because I *knew* that they wouldn't cover it and that it would come back to bite ME in the fucking ass at some point. Other people's fuckups always DO.

Turns out, they'd just GIVEN me the 180 extra Ultrams, and hadn't even CHARGED MY DRUG PLAN FOR THE DAMNED THINGS. If I'd have known that they were off of the fucking BOOKS, I'd have made like Jesse Owens and hauled ass way the fuck outta there, 'cause I never know when I'm going to be fucked-over by some douchebag like my former GP, Rachel Gruner, the stupid cunt "doctor" who CRIES TO ME ABOUT HOW SHE PISSED-AWAY TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS when I explain to her that I can't afford to drive to Baton Rouge three times a week for "physical therapy" (this is between Dr. Jackass & Good Doctor) that SHE had prescribed, BECAUSE I WAS ON MY LAST SIX FUCKING BUCKS ON THE FIFTEENTH OF THE FUCKING MONTH. So that's how she attempts to "relate"? BY TELLING ME THAT SHE'D BLOWN A QUARTER MIL ON A FUCKING RESTAURANT INVESTMENT?!?!?!! Anyway, I haven't had a GP/regular doctor since her, and when I am finally released from Good Doctor's care and off of the hard shit once and for all, I'm going to need somebody dependable so that I never have to lie in that tub of icewater ever the fuck again. So it wouldn't kill me to have a backup bottle in the freezer, y'know?

Especially when they're FREE.

But my narcotic-hampered brain DIDN'T THINK OF THAT. Noooo, no, all that I thought of was covering my ass in re: my fucking drug plan and Wally-World trying to double-bill.

Again, if I hadn't walked in there and HANDED THEM BACK TO THE PHARMACIST, I'd have been home free, dumbass that I am. If I hung out with the crackheads around here, I'd have known where to sell the motherfuckers at $3 to $5 a pop, and I'd have had my truck fixed TOMORROW!!!!!! But then, the pharmacist assumed that I was rightly entitled to them and didn't bother to tell me that he'd filled them off the books, so how was he to know that THEY had fucked-up and given me TOO MANY DRUGS?

Oh, right.

'CAUSE I FUCKING ***TOLD*** THEM THAT I ALREADY HAD MY ULTRAMS!!!!!!

Some motherfucker owes me $65 for that wasted hour and a quarter of my life, spent on the most uncomfortable piece-of-shit bench IN A FUCKING WAL-MART, based upon my last pay rates doing production in radio. Fifty bucks an hour, MINIMUM. I'll happily take it in a fucking GIFT CARD. Granted, if I'd SOLD the fucking extra pills, I'd be SEVERAL HUNDRED DOLLARS RICHER, but I'll settle for the sixty-five.

That's what you get for telling the fucking truth: BUPKIS. Your time wasted, your physical agony spent for nothing, and your entire fucking WEEK fucked-up with self-recrimination.