Phorging a head

Rehab is a phunnie word. No one is ever rehabilitated. That is a polite way for saying everyone, included the turnip, has given up. Phore get the “re” stuph. People r habilitated. Then learn to live again.

In my little town… in my little town on an island outside Seattle with lots of money everywhere there is a central intelligence helping house. Here social workers try the latest untried therapies, dispense a can or two of phood (not too much, because sick people need to work phore their phood). And iph u r not the kind of sick person our little town wants then u r sick and dang jeer ous, a serious condition that means u shouldn’t really be in our town.

Yep. The Mystery Shopper called them on it, and then city hall, because municipal corporations, food banks, and helper house r all public agencies under the ADA. Get it? Ha ha ha (one more phore the heck) ha. That means no discrimination under civil rights law.

Helper house decided I was beyond help (I think, partly, that means it would cost more to fix me that it was worth). I became welfare garbage. Some one from my church drove me our oph town and put me in a motel and left.

I called HelperHouse and asked phore Help. “Sorry, u live outside our district phore Helping.” I am still trying to figure that out. I aksed where I was supposed to go. Well, apparentlly in the little town they had taken me I was to avail myselph of the myriad of social services. Not. None. Empty set. Zero not even discovered yet in this culture.

Now here I am. happily living on the Island. I need a pass to go swimming. Parks Department, whose federal money mandates a mechanism for providing equal access (that means no discrimination), says I have to go to Helper House.

I won’t make that mistake again. No more feet in Helper House. One trauma, two trauma, no more trauma there.