You were the dude in his 60s with a mild case of pneumonia who was next to my brother in the hospital. While he lay there with a feeding tube running into his stomach, unable to speak or even swallow because of advanced MS, you kvetched shamelessly about your relative hangnail like a big baby. The staff said you had been “agitated” since you came in. You'd impulsively go between death's door and trying to get up to move your car to avoid a ticket, telling the nurses what to do, even babbling feverishly in your sleep, whimpering “please” and “sorry” pathetically when it would benefit you, then dropping F-bombs when you didn't get your wish. You sounded exactly like Donald Sterling on that tape recording, only minus the racism. You even looked amazingly like him: that same blotto, squinty-eyed, canine face etched with toxicity. It wasn't really the bacteria in your lungs causing all your misery. No, bud, that's been a lifelong condition for you.
