- Joined
- Feb 23, 2021
If stroking out is a job, he's worked hard at that.
Careercow Jack Russell Scalfani / Cooking With Jack / Jack on the Go Show / jakatak - YouTube "Celebrity" "Chef", Living Encyclopedia of Gluttony-Induced Maladies, Salmonella Elemental
- Thread starter Gentlebastard
- Start date
- Joined
- Jan 19, 2023
- Joined
- Sep 29, 2022
Went and rewatched it and yeah I can see it now. Still not a fan of the man or his business practices but my god that takes stones to sit there knowing he's in excruciating pain and acting like it's nothing. But then I remember that pro wrestlers will continue to wrestle even when they're sick because they don't get sick days.
LaughJoke2.0
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 31, 2023
Oh, it's not can't it's won't. I saw people who would say the humidity was too high, it was rainy, etc and claim it made their joints hurt and they would opt out of PT that day. Now the thing he can be kicked out of PT and OT if he keeps doing it or be dropped if he isn't making progress, you get kicked out for both meeting your goals because your done and not if you're wasting the staff's time. You can be revaluated later and begin the cycle again. Or lastly you "do" it and do one of two things but stop because you "can't" do more it hurts. People like Jack and I know he's one because he's been checking every other box use to annoy me, I'd be there in massive pain sweating and working until my legs turned to jelly and then I'd walk at night with my walker and later cane to get better and they just lay there and whine about the most minor of exercise.
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2020
Damn. Its a shitty job, being a pro wrestler, but I think this is one of those few cases where you can point at the boss of the shitty job and say "He's not asking them to do anything he wouldn't do", cuz goddamn, to keep a straight face with your muscles literally blown, that is some fucking dedication to the bit.
Jacks going to turn into one of those horror stories from /fit/ where he shows up at a hospital complaining that his foot hurts, and the poor nurse just casually pulls his foot off by accident because its rotted right through, and has been dead for months.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2021
I am curious about their future in general. How will they afford an even more expensive house in the middle of nowhere when Jack will need at least a part-time caregiver and that won't be free. Only way I see it is that they buy this house with the intention of roping Jack Jr. home and making one of them the caregiver in exchange for not paying rent. I don't think Tammy has it in her to be a caregiver nor can she quit her job. Even if she went remote, you know that Jack would be constantly screaming from the back bedroom about why the DD guy isn't here yet when he placed the order 5 seconds ago. Imagine you are in a meeting when suddenly your invalid husband, who by every fault of his own, starts screeching he wants his diaper changed naow Mommywife. No, I don't see remote work going well for her.
VenomPlug
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2014
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2022
From this morning. Jack has already deleted them.
That Damned Tiger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2018
A guy who's never worked in his life complaining about people who work from home? That's rich.
Edit: A word.
Last edited:
realgone2
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2020
Strokin' is my business and business is GUD.
- Joined
- May 26, 2013
"I'm not owned, YOU'RE owned!" shrieked Jack at his phone as he looked up from his three simultaneous breakfasts from his $4500-a-night rented bed while sitting on his warm and squashy Depends before slowly shrinking and turning into a corncob.
(ref Dril)
You know what's funny Jack? They can have their nerves hit because their nerves are not destroyed like yours.
(ref Dril)
You know what's funny Jack? They can have their nerves hit because their nerves are not destroyed like yours.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Eat shit and die, Jack. Oh wait, you can't, because you only have one functional arm to eat with and they're not going to let you eat from your own bedpan. So instead of eating shit and dying, just die.
Tammy has seriously had it with his shit. If she could somehow figure out how to sneak in a literal heart attack in a box, she would.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Kill Scalfanis. Behead Scalfanis. Roundhouse kick a Scalfani into the concrete. Slam dunk a Scalfani nonexistent baby into the trashcan. Crucify filthy Scalfanis. Defecate in a Scalfani's estrogen. Launch Scalfanis into the sun. Stir fry Scalfanis in a pan. Toss Scalfanis into active volcanoes. Urinate into a Scalfani's gas tank. Judo throw Scalfanis into a wood chipper. Twist Scalfanis' heads off. Report Scalfanis to the IRS. Karate chop Scalfanis in half. Curb stomp Scalfanis. Make them bite the curb first. Trap Scalfanis in bogs. Crush Scalfanis in the trash compactor. Liquefy Scalfanis in a vat of acid. Eat Scalfanis for the healthy lard dose. Dissect Scalfanis. Exterminate Scalfanis in the gas chamber. Stomp Scalfani skulls with steel toed boots. Cremate Scalfaniss in the oven. Lobotomize Scalfanis. Mandatory abortions for the few fertile Scalfanis. Grind Scalfani nonexistent fetuses in the garbage disposal. Drown Scalfanis in fried soy milk. Vaporize Scalfanis with a ray gun. Kick old Scalfanis down the stairs. Feed Scalfanis to the North Sea. Slice Scalfanis with a dull bread knife. Feed Scalfanis nothing but salmonella until they finally die. Jihad on Scalfanis! Death to Scalfanis!
His self entitlement makes me so fucking sick.
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2020
Oooh, like the Swamps of Dagobah?
OR Nurse here. This is kind of a long one...
I was taking call one night, and woke up at two in the morning for a "general surgery" call. Pretty vague, but at the time, I lived in a town that had large populations of young military guys and avid meth users, so late-night emergencies were common.
Got to the hospital, where a few more details awaited me -- "Perirectal abscess." For the uninitiated, this means that somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the asshole, there was a pocket of pus that needed draining. Needless to say our entire crew was less than thrilled.
I went down to the Emergency Room to transport the patient, and the only thing the ER nurse said as she handed me the chart was "Have fun with this one." Amongst healthcare professionals, vague statements like that are a bad sign.
My patient was a 314lb Native American woman who barely fit on the stretcher I was transporting her on. She was rolling frantically side to side and moaning in pain, pulling at her clothes and muttering Hail Mary's. I could barely get her name out of her after a few minutes of questioning, so after I confirmed her identity and what we were working on, I figured it was best just to get her to the anesthesiologist so we could knock her out and get this circus started.
She continued her theatrics the entire ten-minute ride to the O.R., nearly falling off the surgical table as we were trying to put her under anesthetic. We see patients like this a lot, though, chronic drug abusers who don't handle pain well and who have used so many drugs that even increased levels of pain medication don't touch simply because of high tolerance levels.
It should be noted, tonight's surgical team was not exactly wet behind the ears. I'd been working in healthcare for several years already, mostly psych and medical settings. I've watched an 88-year-old man tear a 1"-diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming "You'll never make me talk!". I've been attacked by an HIV-positive neo-Nazi. I've seen some shit. The other nurse had been in the OR as a trauma specialist for over ten years; the anesthesiologist had done residency at a Level 1 trauma center, or as we call them, "Knife and Gun Clubs". The surgeon was ex-Army, and averaged about eight words and two facial expressions a week. None of us expected what was about to happen next.
We got the lady off to sleep, put her into the stirrups, and I began washing off the rectal area. It was red and inflamed, a little bit of pus was seeping through, but it was all pretty standard. Her chart had noted that she'd been injecting IV drugs through her perineum, so this was obviously an infection from dirty needles or bad drugs, but overall, it didn't seem to warrant her repeated cries of "Oh Jesus, kill me now."
The surgeon steps up with a scalpel, sinks just the tip in, and at the exact same moment, the patient had a muscle twitch in her diaphragm, and just like that, all hell broke loose.
Unbeknownst to us, the infection had actually tunneled nearly a foot into her abdomen, creating a vast cavern full of pus, rotten tissue, and fecal matter that had seeped outside of her colon. This godforsaken mixture came rocketing out of that little incision like we were recreating the funeral scene from Jane Austen's "Mafia!".
We all wear waterproof gowns, face masks, gloves, hats, the works -- all of which were as helpful was rainboots against a firehose. The bed was in the middle of the room, an easy seven feet from the nearest wall, but by the time we were done, I was still finding bits of rotten flesh pasted against the back wall. As the surgeon continued to advance his blade, the torrent just continued. The patient kept seizing against the ventilator (not uncommon in surgery), and with every muscle contraction, she shot more of this brackish gray-brown fluid out onto the floor until, within minutes, it was seeping into the other nurse's shoes.
I was nearly twelve feet away, jaw dropped open within my surgical mask, watching the second nurse dry-heaving and the surgeon standing on tip-toes to keep this stuff from soaking his socks any further. The smell hit them first. "Oh god, I just threw up in my mask!" The other nurse was out, she tore off her mask and sprinted out of the room, shoulders still heaving. Then it hit me, mouth still wide open, not able to believe the volume of fluid this woman's body contained. It was like getting a great big bite of the despair and apathy that permeated this woman's life. I couldn't fucking breath, my lungs simply refused to pull anymore of that stuff in. The anesthesiologist went down next, an ex-NCAA D1 tailback, his six-foot-two frame shaking as he threw open the door to the OR suite in an attempt to get more air in, letting me glimpse the second nurse still throwing up in the sinks outside the door. Another geyser of pus splashed across the front of the surgeon. The YouTube clip of "David at the dentist" keeps playing in my head -- "Is this real life?"
In all operating rooms, everywhere in the world, regardless of socialized or privatized, secular or religious, big or small, there is one thing the same: Somewhere, there is a bottle of peppermint concentrate. Everyone in the department knows where it is, everyone knows what it is for, and everyone prays to their gods they never have to use it. In times like this, we rub it on the inside of our masks to keep the outside smells at bay long enough to finish the procedure and shower off.
I sprinted to the our central supply, ripping open the drawer where this vial of ambrosia was kept, and was greeted by -- an empty fucking box. The bottle had been emptied and not replaced. Somewhere out there was a godless bastard who had used the last of the peppermint oil, and not replaced a single fucking drop of it. To this day, if I figure out who it was, I'll kill them with my bare hands, but not before cramming their head up the colon of every last meth user I can find, just so we're even.
I darted back into the room with the next best thing I can find -- a vial of Mastisol, which is an adhesive rub we use sometimes for bandaging. It's not as good as peppermint, but considering that over one-third of the floor was now thoroughly coated in what could easily be mistaken for a combination of bovine after-birth and maple syrup, we were out of options.
I started rubbing as much of the Mastisol as I could get on the inside of my mask, just glad to be smelling anything except whatever slimy demon spawn we'd just cut out of this woman. The anesthesiologist grabbed the vial next, dowsing the front of his mask in it so he could stand next to his machines long enough to make sure this woman didn't die on the table. It wasn't until later that we realized that Mastisol can give you a mild high from huffing it like this, but in retrospect, that's probably what got us through.
By this time, the smell had permeated out of our OR suite, and down the forty-foot hallway to the front desk, where the other nurse still sat, eyes bloodshot and watery, clenching her stomach desperately. Our suite looked like the underground river of ooze from Ghostbusters II, except dirty. Oh so dirty.
I stepped back into the OR suite, not wanting to leave the surgeon by himself in case he genuinely needed help. It was like one of those overly-artistic representations of a zombie apocalypse you see on fan-forums. Here's this one guy, in blue surgical garb, standing nearly ankle deep in lumps of dead tissue, fecal matter, and several liters of syrupy infection. He was performing surgery in the swamps of Dagobah, except the swamps had just come out of this woman's ass and there was no Yoda. He and I didn't say a word for the next ten minutes as he scraped the inside of the abscess until all the dead tissue was out, the front of his gown a gruesome mixture of brown and red, his eyes squinted against the stinging vapors originating directly in front of him. I finished my required paperwork as quickly as I could, helped him stuff the recently-vacated opening full of gauze, taped this woman's buttocks closed to hold the dressing for as long as possible, woke her up, and immediately shipped off to the recovery ward.
Until then, I'd only heard of "alcohol showers." Turns out 70% isopropyl alcohol is about the only thing that can even touch a scent like that once its soaked into your skin. It takes four or five bottles to get really clean, but it's worth it. It's probably the only scenario I can honestly endorse drinking a little of it, too.
As we left the locker room, the surgeon and I looked at each other, and he said the only negative sentence I heard him utter in two and a half years of working together:
"That was bad."
The next morning the entire department (a fairly large floor within the hospital) still smelled. The housekeepers told me later that it took them nearly an hour to suction up all of the fluid and debris left behind. The OR suite itself was closed off and quarantined for two more days just to let the smell finally clear out.
I laugh now when I hear new recruits to healthcare talk about the worst thing they've seen. You ain't seen shit, kid.
tl;dr Don't shoot IV drugs into your taint.
I was taking call one night, and woke up at two in the morning for a "general surgery" call. Pretty vague, but at the time, I lived in a town that had large populations of young military guys and avid meth users, so late-night emergencies were common.
Got to the hospital, where a few more details awaited me -- "Perirectal abscess." For the uninitiated, this means that somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the asshole, there was a pocket of pus that needed draining. Needless to say our entire crew was less than thrilled.
I went down to the Emergency Room to transport the patient, and the only thing the ER nurse said as she handed me the chart was "Have fun with this one." Amongst healthcare professionals, vague statements like that are a bad sign.
My patient was a 314lb Native American woman who barely fit on the stretcher I was transporting her on. She was rolling frantically side to side and moaning in pain, pulling at her clothes and muttering Hail Mary's. I could barely get her name out of her after a few minutes of questioning, so after I confirmed her identity and what we were working on, I figured it was best just to get her to the anesthesiologist so we could knock her out and get this circus started.
She continued her theatrics the entire ten-minute ride to the O.R., nearly falling off the surgical table as we were trying to put her under anesthetic. We see patients like this a lot, though, chronic drug abusers who don't handle pain well and who have used so many drugs that even increased levels of pain medication don't touch simply because of high tolerance levels.
It should be noted, tonight's surgical team was not exactly wet behind the ears. I'd been working in healthcare for several years already, mostly psych and medical settings. I've watched an 88-year-old man tear a 1"-diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming "You'll never make me talk!". I've been attacked by an HIV-positive neo-Nazi. I've seen some shit. The other nurse had been in the OR as a trauma specialist for over ten years; the anesthesiologist had done residency at a Level 1 trauma center, or as we call them, "Knife and Gun Clubs". The surgeon was ex-Army, and averaged about eight words and two facial expressions a week. None of us expected what was about to happen next.
We got the lady off to sleep, put her into the stirrups, and I began washing off the rectal area. It was red and inflamed, a little bit of pus was seeping through, but it was all pretty standard. Her chart had noted that she'd been injecting IV drugs through her perineum, so this was obviously an infection from dirty needles or bad drugs, but overall, it didn't seem to warrant her repeated cries of "Oh Jesus, kill me now."
The surgeon steps up with a scalpel, sinks just the tip in, and at the exact same moment, the patient had a muscle twitch in her diaphragm, and just like that, all hell broke loose.
Unbeknownst to us, the infection had actually tunneled nearly a foot into her abdomen, creating a vast cavern full of pus, rotten tissue, and fecal matter that had seeped outside of her colon. This godforsaken mixture came rocketing out of that little incision like we were recreating the funeral scene from Jane Austen's "Mafia!".
We all wear waterproof gowns, face masks, gloves, hats, the works -- all of which were as helpful was rainboots against a firehose. The bed was in the middle of the room, an easy seven feet from the nearest wall, but by the time we were done, I was still finding bits of rotten flesh pasted against the back wall. As the surgeon continued to advance his blade, the torrent just continued. The patient kept seizing against the ventilator (not uncommon in surgery), and with every muscle contraction, she shot more of this brackish gray-brown fluid out onto the floor until, within minutes, it was seeping into the other nurse's shoes.
I was nearly twelve feet away, jaw dropped open within my surgical mask, watching the second nurse dry-heaving and the surgeon standing on tip-toes to keep this stuff from soaking his socks any further. The smell hit them first. "Oh god, I just threw up in my mask!" The other nurse was out, she tore off her mask and sprinted out of the room, shoulders still heaving. Then it hit me, mouth still wide open, not able to believe the volume of fluid this woman's body contained. It was like getting a great big bite of the despair and apathy that permeated this woman's life. I couldn't fucking breath, my lungs simply refused to pull anymore of that stuff in. The anesthesiologist went down next, an ex-NCAA D1 tailback, his six-foot-two frame shaking as he threw open the door to the OR suite in an attempt to get more air in, letting me glimpse the second nurse still throwing up in the sinks outside the door. Another geyser of pus splashed across the front of the surgeon. The YouTube clip of "David at the dentist" keeps playing in my head -- "Is this real life?"
In all operating rooms, everywhere in the world, regardless of socialized or privatized, secular or religious, big or small, there is one thing the same: Somewhere, there is a bottle of peppermint concentrate. Everyone in the department knows where it is, everyone knows what it is for, and everyone prays to their gods they never have to use it. In times like this, we rub it on the inside of our masks to keep the outside smells at bay long enough to finish the procedure and shower off.
I sprinted to the our central supply, ripping open the drawer where this vial of ambrosia was kept, and was greeted by -- an empty fucking box. The bottle had been emptied and not replaced. Somewhere out there was a godless bastard who had used the last of the peppermint oil, and not replaced a single fucking drop of it. To this day, if I figure out who it was, I'll kill them with my bare hands, but not before cramming their head up the colon of every last meth user I can find, just so we're even.
I darted back into the room with the next best thing I can find -- a vial of Mastisol, which is an adhesive rub we use sometimes for bandaging. It's not as good as peppermint, but considering that over one-third of the floor was now thoroughly coated in what could easily be mistaken for a combination of bovine after-birth and maple syrup, we were out of options.
I started rubbing as much of the Mastisol as I could get on the inside of my mask, just glad to be smelling anything except whatever slimy demon spawn we'd just cut out of this woman. The anesthesiologist grabbed the vial next, dowsing the front of his mask in it so he could stand next to his machines long enough to make sure this woman didn't die on the table. It wasn't until later that we realized that Mastisol can give you a mild high from huffing it like this, but in retrospect, that's probably what got us through.
By this time, the smell had permeated out of our OR suite, and down the forty-foot hallway to the front desk, where the other nurse still sat, eyes bloodshot and watery, clenching her stomach desperately. Our suite looked like the underground river of ooze from Ghostbusters II, except dirty. Oh so dirty.
I stepped back into the OR suite, not wanting to leave the surgeon by himself in case he genuinely needed help. It was like one of those overly-artistic representations of a zombie apocalypse you see on fan-forums. Here's this one guy, in blue surgical garb, standing nearly ankle deep in lumps of dead tissue, fecal matter, and several liters of syrupy infection. He was performing surgery in the swamps of Dagobah, except the swamps had just come out of this woman's ass and there was no Yoda. He and I didn't say a word for the next ten minutes as he scraped the inside of the abscess until all the dead tissue was out, the front of his gown a gruesome mixture of brown and red, his eyes squinted against the stinging vapors originating directly in front of him. I finished my required paperwork as quickly as I could, helped him stuff the recently-vacated opening full of gauze, taped this woman's buttocks closed to hold the dressing for as long as possible, woke her up, and immediately shipped off to the recovery ward.
Until then, I'd only heard of "alcohol showers." Turns out 70% isopropyl alcohol is about the only thing that can even touch a scent like that once its soaked into your skin. It takes four or five bottles to get really clean, but it's worth it. It's probably the only scenario I can honestly endorse drinking a little of it, too.
As we left the locker room, the surgeon and I looked at each other, and he said the only negative sentence I heard him utter in two and a half years of working together:
"That was bad."
The next morning the entire department (a fairly large floor within the hospital) still smelled. The housekeepers told me later that it took them nearly an hour to suction up all of the fluid and debris left behind. The OR suite itself was closed off and quarantined for two more days just to let the smell finally clear out.
I laugh now when I hear new recruits to healthcare talk about the worst thing they've seen. You ain't seen shit, kid.
tl;dr Don't shoot IV drugs into your taint.
What a fucking baby. Had he gotten a chorus of agreement, he’d have left it up to bask in the glory of being seen as a sage. But no, his fragile ego can’t handle being called out. So any resistance is met with deletion, because he’s a pussy-ass bitch.
It reminds me so much of this classic George Constanza moment.
Buck Mullet
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Nov 11, 2015
Jack doesn't even work from home, that would imply providing a service and getting paid. And of all thing things to grind his gears, it's folks wanting to continue working remotely even though Covid restrictions have been lifted? It's not the same as seeing some dipshit at the grocery store still wearing a mask. People's lives got upended through no cause of their own, then just as they've settled into making the best of it and maybe finding themselves actually more productive they're told to go back to the way things used to be? Most people would realize at that point it's not about safety, but rather control. And that's something I think Jack desperately craves as much as meat and cheese but can never have. It literally pisses him off to think that some people don't want to return to the status quo because they've found they prefer a different way of doing things.
The irony, a man with zero self control getting angy over those who exercise theirs. Hell, who exercise at all.
The irony, a man with zero self control getting angy over those who exercise theirs. Hell, who exercise at all.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Grats on a truly classic pasta.
A "man" who has never had a job and makes money by shoveling goyslop down his fat face is criticizing people who actually work.
Eat shit, Jack.
He'll somehow give a bad Yelp review to the dudes who lower his fat carcass into the grave, probably in less than a year from now. God I hate Jack.
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2019
What an absolute retarded gorilla nigger. Jack was always a bit of a manbaby but the strokes really did change him for the worse, back in the Cali days he at least could articulate his position and possibly even have a legitimate argument with other people over it.
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2021
Those people were barely even arguing; that was a discussion at worst. Nobody was insulting Jack, cussing or slingin' the ad-homs. Does he really expect only agreement with his statements?
On mobility: Jack can't stay Skilled forever. In the near future, there is going to be a bureaucratic reckoning regarding where he'll go next. It will be slow and boring and we will only know about it by deduction from Jack's stroked-out complaint posts, but his heart will be weighed against a feather and the crocodile-lion-hippo will eat his soul.
- Joined
- Sep 10, 2019
Jack's long term care situation is going to be dire for the rest of his family. Its been nearly two months and Jack still can't stand. If he had a breakthrough like going to piss on his own, he would have made a post praising Jesus for it on Boomer Book.
Jack is almost completely disabled, he is going to need long term care. Whatever meager profits (or more likely fraudulent tax write offs) he had before are going to be gone. Plus he will need long term care. Tammy's earning are going to be stretched thin, and no way is Junior going to be any help.
Jack is almost completely disabled, he is going to need long term care. Whatever meager profits (or more likely fraudulent tax write offs) he had before are going to be gone. Plus he will need long term care. Tammy's earning are going to be stretched thin, and no way is Junior going to be any help.