Taste Like Rotting Flesh In Here

The last few days I have spent my time inventorying, cleaning and playing catch-up with my paperwork. There's a shocker. I would rather rebuild a whole body than do one days worth of paperwork. I hate it. Fuck, retarded monkeys could do it. Alas, the mortuary is being inspected tomorrow, so it had to be done.

Late last night I received a call that I had a morning project. Not a lot of reconstruction, just a few facial and hand lacerations, but my coworkers have gotten lazy. Hell, I can't think of the last time any of them have stepped in and done any sort of reconstruct. Okay, maybe it isn't them being lazy, it's me being greedy.

On this balmy 96 degree day I was prepping a rapidly decomposing body with skin slippage. Doesn't sound that bad, right? But once again the air conditioner is acting up. No, not acting up... dead. Like everything else there, as the smell kept reminding me. Usually the air is cool enough, moves enough, and is dry enough to keep the taste of rotting flesh out of your mouth. Hot, humid and stale air doesn't give much relief.

However, I would have worked on ten bodies today before doing another minute of paperwork. That type of hate takes dedication.

Reversing Plastic Surgery (After Death)

I had a *ahem* client recently who had obviously been obsessed with plastic surgery while she was living. She wasn't a young woman. She has breast, butt, chin and cheek implants. She had her ears pinned, her nose redone (twice) and several face and eye lifts. Some of the work was obvious, but most of this information came from her distraught husband.

He requested her face go back to what it was supposed to look like for her funeral, providing several pictures of what he wanted her to look like. His reasoning was he wanted her to be "his wife again" when they meet in heaven. My client died peacefully. There was no trauma to her body whatsoever (not even an autopsy), so there was no need to reconstruct. I tried explaining this to him, as did my superior, but there was no swaying his decision that this had to be done. He only asked that her breast and butt implants stay "because, frankly, they look great" (his words, hence the quotes).

After deliberating it, and greatly increasing the price of the funeral, my superior gave the go ahead and I went to work on this ridiculous case. I can't help but wonder, if they do meet in heaven, if she isn't just going to bitch slap him for making her look old and giving her back a face she obviously hated.

Television Pisses Me Off

"Oh, I can't go out, Burn Notice is on tonight." Umm... okay. You know, it's great that you have a favorite TV show and all, but you've turned into a hermit. A fat fucking hermit. If it's not Burn Notice, it's American Idol or Lost or True Blood or The Bachelor or some other mind numbing crap. You wonder why you are 35 and single? It's because you won't leave the house. Stop bitching and marry your TV.

And you, the one who somehow managed to get pregnant between channel surfing, no matter what you say, you will never convince me that watching TV is a family activity. No, going on a hike together is a family activity. Sitting in the living room reading aloud is a family activity. Taking a rifle and shooting your kids in the face is a god damned family activity. Asses glued to the couch, drool running out of your mouth, watching reruns of Friends or Gilmore Girls is NOT a family activity. It isn't even activity. It takes no thought... at all. And setting your kids in front of Dora isn't the same as spending time teaching them something.

I don't have a television, and I am sick of people asking me how I can stand it or what I do with my free time. Uh, I read. I hone my skills on the piano. I run. None of these are difficult concepts to grasp. Hell, if more people turned off the idiot box and DID something, who knows what could be accomplished. Alas, this isn't going to happen. CSI is on, so you had better park it back on the couch.

A Cat Tale

I hate cats. I don't mean a general dislike towards cats that most sane human beings have, but I truly hate them. They are poor pets and are better for skinning than petting.

Several months ago I let my French Bulldog, Bundy, outside during a storm. He came back a couple minutes later with a cat following him. When I saw her, my first reaction was to grab the shotgun under the couch and shoot her. But being that I am literally in the middle of a small community, the blast would have garnered some undesired attention. Instead I opened the door, and both soggy animals walked in.

I was relieved to see the cat was wearing a collar. That means she had an owner. Someone who would come pick her up before her meowing drove me to feline-icide. After three days of looking for her AWOL owners, it was apparent that this meowing tasty snake snack was abandoned. After a month of living in the same space as this demon, I finally named her Ellie. It seemed she wasn't going to find her way home, and I couldn't throw her in the microwave because of the metal on her collar.

Soon after I named her, she started becoming satan incarnate. Attacking me when I walk by, or while I am trying to sleep. Many nights I have planned on tying a cinder block to her neck and dropping her in the river. After corralling her, I always remember I don't have a cinder block, and put it on my shopping lists. Unfortunately I never follow my shopping lists.

Enough time has passed that I realize that I am really not thrilled with her here, especially since said cat was trained to attack and try to kill every living thing. But I have a plan. I am training Bundy to be a cat-attack dog. Maybe one day this situation will end in a bloody battle to the death, gladiator style. I'm taking bets on who will win. That is, unless anyone wants a cat?

Suicide In The Mortuary

Suicide is a touchy subject for most people, but it's a huge profit center for funeral homes. When a loved one is elderly or terminal, most people start the grieving process before they lose that person. But when someone kills themselves, they leave a wake of people who seem to feel like they should have done more. Should have done better for the deceased. This leads to higher priced services so the loved ones can prove they really did care about the person who took their life. (There is a small percentage of families who have no service and just do a simple cremation if someone commits suicide, but this is a rarity.)

Not to long ago I was called into work by my employers sister company to do a massive reconstruction. A 16 year old boy decided to end his life with a shot gun in the mouth. The family wanted an open casket, and as you can imagine, he was in no shape for it. When I arrived I found that he was already prepped (washed and embalmed) and I was just to work on what was left of his head.

After assessing the situation, and taking a trip to the local hardware store (no Lowes in sight), I peeled off his face off starting directly above the collar bone. When I saw what I had to work with, I realized that I wouldn't be able to do a decent job without removing his skull and working from there. When you start cutting through flesh and bones the prep room starts to smell like a slaughter house doused in formaldehyde. It's not unpleasant, but not something you want to bottle into perfume. I won't go into more details, but a reconstruction like this isn't cheap. If an old woman sustained head injuries that made an open casket funeral a near impossibility, her family would have accepted it.

I don't understand why people feel the need to prove their love after someone is dead. It can turn into pissing contests between family members. I appreciate it, seeing as how it pays my bills, but it doesn't make any sense.