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Wednesday, Dec. 2, 2009

So This Guy Goes to a Doctor

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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So what the fock, Tiger Woods is in the company of a New York City nightclub hostess, some knob from the peanut gallery shouts, “In the hole!” Mr. Woods, clutch linksman that he is, complies; so then later the Mrs. Woods grabs the post-Thanksgivng dinner nine-iron and aims to take a hefty divot from off the mister’s pate? Did she forget to mark “prenup” on her marriage score card and this is her notion of a mulligan?

Questions, oh yeah, you bet. But no focking question focking bigger for me, lo, these days, than what the fock is the hold-up with the health insurance fixer-upper for the people? Is it that the congressional Republican hold-ups puppeteered by the Focks News douchebags are too busy scoring red-state tit off of Alaska’s bespectacled “Death Panel” Rogue Hag that they can’t see that the “everyday, hardworking Americans,” the “everyday folks” of the “true America” without a claim on some kind of health insurance have to focking croak just so they can afford to see a doctor; say the one who performs the autopsy?

Yeah yeah, reminds me of a time a couple, three years back when a guy like me all of a sudden feels like his heart’s trying to crawl out of his chest—like the alien in a movie coincidentally called Alien—sees stars and feels like he’s about to become passed-out like a baloney sandwich at a homeless shelter, or something like that. He figures that one of these days maybe he ought to go by the hospital and let them have a poke-around, what the fock.

So: “How many doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb?” For some, answer is “depends on what kind of insurance you have.” But for bazillions of fellow citizens, answer’s got to be “None. Fock the light bulb. You’re the one who’s screwed.”

Cripes almighty, this persistent mess with the doctors, these HMOs and the question of “who can be a patient and who can’t” has even affected the play of innocent children’s games. To wit: So this little girl, second grade, comes home from school and tells her ma, “This boy in my class asked me to play doctor today.” Naturally, her ma was a little nervous and asked the girl what the heck went on. And the girl says, “Nothing. He just made me wait an hour and 45 minutes and then double-billed the insurance company.” Ba-ding!

So yeah, I didn’t go to the doctors right away back then when I felt my inner-health alarm start beeping like a banshee. Even though I had some kind of health insurance, going to the doctors still will cost you something. So I hoped that whatever was going haywire would plain go away by itself, which is the only thing the people with no insurance can do—hope that whatever’s going haywire will go away by itself, because going to the doctors can cost you everything. You get good and honking puking sick these days without the insurance, not only do you need the “sick leave” from work, but you better pray you got “bankruptcy leave” to boot, I kid you not.

And serendipity, that morning I heard some jag on the radio talking ’bout the skyrocket costs for the health care, and that if all the people, each and every one, took more of what-you-call the preventative measures, these costs could enjoy a bit of shrinkage—got to be good news for the uninsured, ain’a? Take your preventative measures and if you get good and honking puking sick, it might only cost you one billion focking bucks instead of two billion focking bucks—thanks, I feel so much better, and I even learned how to take out my own focking appendix.

Damn shame these Florence Nightingales we somehow got elected to Congress who can’t do one goddamn thing for the people who can’t get the health insurance, except to offer them the option of considering only one health-care preventative measure—go hang yourself from a beam in the basement and declare yourself technically out of the system.

Fock ’em all, each and everyone. And I am reminded of a story:

This rich guy with a load of health insurance was having heart trouble so he goes to the doctors to see what his options are. Doctor recommends a heart transplant. The patient agrees and asks if there were any hearts immediately available, since money’s no issue with him.

Doctor says, “I’ve got three hearts. The first is from an 18-year-old kid, non-smoker, athletic, swimmer with a great diet. Shark attack but the heart’s perfect. It's $100,000. The second’s from a marathon runner, 25 years old, great condition, very strong. Got hit by a bus. It's $150,000. The third is from a self-serving hypocritical liar whose job was to make his cronies rich. Costs $500,000.”

Patient says, “Hey, why’s that heart so expensive? Guy sounds like an asshole who lived a terrible life!”

“True, but it's from a member of the United States Senate. It’s never been used.” Ba-ding!

As for my visit, the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong, for now, but thank god they still got paid, somehow—reminded me of this old gag: Man goes to a doctor. Man says, “I got this pain in my neck.” Doctor asks, “You ever had that pain before?” Man says he has. Doctor says, “Well, you got it again.”

Anyways, I was supposed to take it easy; so enough with the bitching, for now, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.

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