Job hierarchy problems don't just melt away unless some kind of salve is found to soothe the ego of the "My-first-name-is-Doctor" types.

The difference between God and a Doctor is that God doesn't think He's a Doctor.

Psychiatrists are in the basement of the medical dick-length pecking order. They don't get a lot of people to lord things over. Most of them are either too foreign to play American Business Power Games or if American, have done enough therapy themselves not to play.

I like this - very astute (as we'd expect from Wolf, of course!)

???
meaning they (psych) are more or less difficult to deal with?

They're the worst. They try to analyze you while berating you at the same time.
Oh, and we all know they are nuts on top of that. Heck, most of them went into that business to figure out whats wrong with themselves anyway....


Just kidding.

Interestingly, stuff tends to clump up all on the same day.

I'm innocently sitting in my office, one of the ambulance guys is listening to police radio, and we learn that there is a woman with a gun at the campus entrance nearest to the nuthouse. Spend next hour waiting to hear if our bullet resistant glass and panels will be tested. Break into light sweat knowing my ability to defend myself is about zero. Plan escape routes.

Also get told that we are likely to have the arrival of an extremely irate crazy parent of an extremely irate crazy girl we admitted the night before. Girl was the first non-psychotic person in all my years at the nuthouse to shrilly (and I mean shrilly, like loud, dogs running in circles shrilly) order me out of my own interview room. She even tried to slam the door on me, but was thwarted by the rubber door stop from managing this. irate crazy dad had announced that he was coming to bust his daughter out. He later backed down on that statement and said he would bring police to get her out. That wouldn't work either, incidentally. Funny thing ... he went to the wrong police department to request their assistance (not difficult given the strange mish-mash of police jurisdictions we have), and ended up talking to one of my better cop-friends, who called us to as what was wrong with daddy-o. Told him. Cop then "politely requested" that daddy-o return to the state from which he came. No sign of daddy-o.

The nuthouse has apparently decided that there are places we should not go ... online, that is. I'm sure the list of restricted sites will grow and grow, all we have left is the medical assistance verification system.

I noticed a new software install about two weeks ago of some firewall and content limiter. I noticed it mainly because it fucked up performance on my computer rather severely.

Then this week, it happened.

One of the ambulance guys announced that he couldn't get on Facebook. I don't particularly care about facebook. I don't use facebook. I've gone on my paranoid rant about facebook many times.

But then I needed something, to quell an argument about something extremely important and thoroughly inconsequential, searched for a video on youtube that would provide an answer and ...

I get the same message from IE that you get when a site is down.

Ambulance boi is already using an anonymizer to get to facebook. I have decided that youtube is not important enough to do the same, especially since we don't know what the penalty for defeating the stop you from fucking around on company time software is going to be.

I knew this was coming when they specifically blocked webkinz two years ago.

I really miss webkinz.

You'll just have to Tee into the cable before them. :haha:

got one of those Hi teck Routers do ya ??

Almost like that, only the room that it's in is smaller, more cluttered, dusty, and does not have heating or air conditioning. And the server hub is balanced on a paperclip that's shoved into the top of a bulletin board.

You think I'm making this up, I suppose.

It isn't. I've had to get the master key to go hang the hub back up on the paper clip when it's fallen off.

I'm sure I've mentioned that the "computer guy" is a legacy hire with a degree in photojournalism who didn't own a home computer up until the nuthouse gave him a laptop less than two years ago?

Last night was kinda busy. Not bad busy, just frustrating busy. I had been dealing with a family that tried an "intervention" with a drunk-ass relative. They look good on TV, but in real life usually involve a lot of shouting and a 911 call. And nobody ends up sober.

But anyway, that's not what the problem for the night ended up being.

See, there's this chick that came in with her parents during the chaos ... enough chaos that several of us didn't even know there was a new arrival. One of my cow orkers is working with her, gets her evaluated, and the doc doesn't think she needs us, she needs rehab. He's working on making that happen.

Meanwhile ... I'm spending the night fielding phone calls and talking to the stupid intervention family ... after a while the dust seems to have settled, the other guys are all off the phone, and I decide it's time to step out onto the veranda to check the weather and have one of the two or three cigarettes that I have per night (I've tried quitting several times, but it seems that two-to-three helps me maintain my customer service friendliness better). I'm about three or four drags in, and I was starting a conversation with the environmental services fellow that was wheeling the trash to the dumpsters.

Then I heard it.

Yelling and shouting.

Yelling and shouting is never good, and was completely unexpected. We only had the one girl out in the lobby, and she was voluntary and calm. The guy who thinks aliens have landed on his roof was already tucked into his bed on the secure unit, and the Eagles football game wasn't really good enough for yelling and shouting of the type I was hearing.

I dash up the steps to find a dogpile in the doorway ... little junkie girl, two ambulance guys, a crisis worker, and the girl's mom shrieking, "What are they doing to my daughter?!"

Since there wasn't any room on top of the girl, I ended up taking charge of the mom, telling her that she had to return to the lobby and stay out of the way.

Mom mumbled about contacting an attorney and demanded the doctor's name.

On learning it, she spat out, "He's a Muslim!"

No ma'am, actually he isn't.

But apparently she decided in that instant that his failure to believe her beloved baby girl's bullshit story to try to get three hots and a cot was the result of his being Muslim.

Cops were called, the girl was hauled off to jail, and order was restored.

My cow orker (not the dude who was working with the girl) who seems to take the brunt of such things had his shirt ripped off him and was bit on the thumb.

Yet another affliction that might have been averted if it hadn't been for cigarettes.

I love your stories wolf. They are a highlight of The Cellar experience.

Thank you, Merc.

So tonight, I'm getting ready to leave. A police officer brings in a young lady, not to get help for herself, but to write a petition on behalf of her mother who is in police custody. This has little to do with the actual story. I'm just establishing why the cop is at the nuthouse. He was dropping a girl off.

I was leaving early, so I'd already gone back to the unit to swipe out at the timeclock. I had my coat on and was picking up my briefcase to go.

The cop was in the foyer.

A guy walks in.

Cow orker: Who's that?

wolf: I dunno. I'm outta here.

nut (to cop who is about to walk out the door): Wow, I'm really glad to see you!

cop: Well, okay ... why is that? (I should mention here that this is a rookie cop, and this was his first visit to the nuthouse)

nut: Because I need you to shoot me.

nut then pulls out a knife, lunges at cop

cop and my big, husky cow orker (yes, the one who had his shirt ripped off his body by the chick in the above post) jump on the guy, shoving him into the wall, slamming his hand against it to disarm him.

Since I needed to walk through the foyer to get out of the building, I figured that waiting another couple of minutes wouldn't hurt and I hit the panic alarm. Several times.

It's rather like watching a rugby scrum. Whole bunch of folks, writhing about, pushing up and down the hallway.

Nobody got stabbed.

That makes it a good night.

You really ought to be selling this stuff, Wolf. With a little padding you could sell collections of nuthouse stories until you retire - in the lap of luxury from all your book sales.