Bob Stapler wakes up and finds himself needing serious medical attention in Obama-world. 

I have been having one of those waking-dreams running through my head with frequent rewind. It is like some goal-post-moving soap-opera-cum-video-game so vile it becomes positively addictive. This fantasy-nightmare replays every time I hear fresh details of the proposed government-run healthcare system, each mention piling on new layers, like an onion peeled in reverse. In my day-mare, Dr. Naty Hartwick, a cardiologist (who eerily resembles Regina Benjamin), informs me I have the same heart-valve flutter my dad suffered, and will need a mechanical valve replacement to keep on keeping on. I live in a country where medical care is tops and, now, all my medical care and costs are to be taken care of by my friendly, beneficent government. So, why am I felling anxious about all this – I mean other than the possibility of dying part.

Here is the scenario:

[Weasely Disclaimer -- this is just a fantasy-nightmare scenario I've been playing with, so all references to apocryphal resemblances to actual persons (real or thinly disguised) are purely coincidental and in no sense meant to disparage anyone -- unless, of course, the shoe fits; in which case, the guilty must answer for their own misdeeds.]

Episode #2 – Bad Vibes and Sour Lemons

Because I can go any minute, Dr. Hartwick (Episode #1 in case you were wondering) schedules me for surgery the very next day at the University of Maryland Medical Center.  To get to the hospital, you have to either park in the underground garage at $1.50/hr ($8/day) or take a cab costing $35. As this will be a one-week stay, I take the cab leaving my car safely at home. 

Click! [Rewind #1]

Unbeknownst to Hartwick and me, in the interim between appointment and diagnosis, the rules of engagement have been altered ever so slightly. Where, before, all you needed to schedule a heart surgery was a diagnosis from a qualified specialist and the approval for payment of same from your insurance company, government has now interposed itself in the vast scheme of things at many levels. Although it is not yet my principal insurer, it regulates private insurers as never before, scrutinizing the choices P.I.s make for their insured to eliminate waste while guaranteeing equal access to the perennially "under-privileged," regardless how necessary (or not) to their survival.  Before my surgery can be scheduled, I have to go before a committee whose purpose is to screen out such waste (sic, injustice) and decide who shall receive and who shall not receive – glory be to his name!

Episode #2A – A Gauntlet Only the Strong Survive

The day of my interview, I arrive at a non-descript building in a part of Baltimore I normally avoid a little before 10:30am (per the instructions given to me). Workers are hurriedly taking down a sign (reads ACO??, but I can't make out the last two letters) and putting up a "Department of Health, Division of Benefits" sign in its place. There is a line of people waiting to get in, and I am directed by a large, surly, pointedly unfriendly guard to take my place in it.  More guards are loitering about both outside and inside the building, presumably providing protection to the clientele, given our locale and vulnerability; and not for the purpose of quelling patient-riots (which I later suspect is more the case). A couple of guards sport Rastafarian dreadlocks, despite the heat – but perhaps because of the spiffy uniforms, manage to look sufficiently guard-like. Most of them have tattoos and seem most comfortable conversing in gang/prison lingo. It is very hot and humid outside, and it looks as if some of the more elderly supplicants are having a rough time of it.  It is still mid-morning; and by early afternoon, two collapse and have to be carried inside to recover. One, an elderly white man, doesn't make it; to which Surly Guard casually remarks, "Well, that's one less I gotta worry bout."

Two-and-a-half hours gets me inside the building and out of the broiling sun (where I began to grow faint and worried I'd be the next carted off), but there is still a long line ahead and it is still hot (air-conditioning in the hallway is grossly inadequate) though a bit drier. We are standing shoulder to shoulder and packed in from those behind also wanting to get out of the sun. By now, we've long since consumed whatever snacks and beverages we'd brought with us, and are reduced to eating whatever we can find in pockets, pocketbooks and totes (Tums, stray M&Ms, chewing gum, etc.). There is no water source other than an unsanitary, single-stall bathroom none of us wants to drink from (assuming you'd risk your place in line for it). At 4:15, a stocky woman leans over the counter selecting seven lucky individuals who will still be seen today (I would have been ninth in line). The rest of us are told to come back tomorrow. For a moment it looks like there will be a riot, but then the army of burly guards cut us off and pulls us out through doors. We have the numbers, but it is "no contest."

The next day, I arrive at 4am in order to stake out a place near the front of the line. I also bring plenty of snacks, Gatorade, and water (including some to share). The office opens "promptly" at 9:13 am, but then we are told, on Tuesdays, the office only processes critical cases, and gives a short list of conditions that qualify (What! she thinks a weak heart valve that can fail any moment isn't critical!).  Several of us ask if it is safe assuming we will be seen on Wednesday. Her answer is less than reassuring.  Because I still have a job and have already taken two medical-leave days, I have to put off coming back until the following week.

I arrive the next Monday again at 4 am, but am shocked to see there is already a line around the building. Still, I get inside by 11:45 am and make it into the pre-screening room by 2:20 pm. Pre-screening consists of a 15-ft by 25-ft room with cracked linoleum floors, bad lighting, and a counter where we belly up to ask questions, receive curt answers and fill out endless forms. The forms ask such obvious medical questions as: medical conditions (list), medications, HIV/AIDS positive, next-of-kin, age, gender, race, working/retired, job-title/description, supervisor's name/phone-number, bank-balance, credit-balance, other outstanding debts (list), medical loans, ever been refused credit/loan, home: rent/own/undomiciled, monthly mortgage payment, political-affiliation, political contributions, activism, felonies (list), outstanding bail-bonds (list), immigration-status, food-stamp entitlement, child-support non-payment, child-care entitlement, carbon-credits/debits as reported on form 42209, environmental credits as reported on IRS-1040, diversity training . . ..

Three-quarters of an hour later, I have filled out the forms (as much as I can reasonably answer), and am waiting my turn to see a medical services pre-screener. I am ushered into a cubicle (one of several) in a room about the same size, where I am introduced to Ms. Frost, my pre-screener. She looks to be about twenty, but could be a little older.  Ms. Frost asks me about some of my responses to questions on the forms she finds inadequate or suspect.

Frost: Mr. S_, you say you are an engineer.  Is that sanitary-engineer or train-engineer?

Me: No, that's someone who engineers things to provide for the physical needs and wants of others.

Frost: I'm sorry, but you'll have to give me more to go on than that.  I have no background in engineering.

Me: Perhaps, if you tell me something of your background, I can relate my work to that in ways you will comprehend.

Frost: Oh, I am studying to be a graphic-artist, but my real interest is classic-literature.

Me: Classic literature as in Shakespeare or Dostoyevsky? 

Frost: Who? Dusty-just-ski? No, "classic," as in Marcus Garvey, Mary Astell, and other pre-modern writers.

Me: Yes, well, let's stick to graphic-arts. Engineers are the ones who designed and oversaw the creation of the tools you graphic-artists use. I assume you use a computer for much of your work [she nods agreement]. Both the computer and the furniture you sit in to use the computer were created by engineers. My own work has to do with providing, designing, specifying, managing, supervising and maintaining building services you need to do your work; services such as air-conditioning, water, lighting, toilets and sinks, boilers . . .

Frost: So, you're in maintenance.

Me: Not exactly, but close.

She demotes me from "Facilities Engineer" to "Maintenance Supervisor." 

She next questions my near total lack of past involvement with government (no crimes, no student loans, no drug rehab, no entitlements, no loan defaults, no child-support issues, no mental illness, no disputes with neighbors, no domestic violence, etc.).

Frost: Mr. S_, it's almost as if you don't exist. If it weren't for your military record and background checks we wouldn't even have finger prints on you.  Your college transcripts are impress . . .

Me: You have access to my background checks?

Frost: It's all here in the computer.  After all, We ARE the government, Mr. S_.

(And, we wonder our identities are so easily stolen.)

Ms. Frost wrapped up the session with a noncommittal promise I would be hearing from someone higher up in the feeding chain in a week or two. It was more like three before I received the snail-mailed notice of an appointment to see a screener in Annapolis in two more weeks, nine weeks past the deadly diagnosis.

Episode #2B – The Committee

I arrive at the appointed hour for my interview with Mr. F.U. Dinayl. I am ushered into a large office with a conference table where I am seated at the far end, my back close to the 5^th floor window. Besides Dinayl, there is a group of four others who will be reviewing my case. Farouk Dinayl is a dapper yet highly moral man clearly in charge, whose demeanor does nothing to put me at ease. He starts the interview by asking me, in 25 words or less, why the committee should approve my application for a heart valve costing $17,422. I respond, simply, by stating,

Me: I need it to save my life.  My doctor says, if my aortal valve is not replaced and soon, I will almost certainly die within a year or two.

Dinayl: Mr. S_, please don't misunderstand us. We need to know why the government should approve a procedure costing taxpayers thousands of dollars.

Me: [Wrong answer #1] Excuse me, but, technically, this isn't costing taxpayers anything other than whatever is being spent on this screening nonsense. The valve and surgical costs are borne by my private insurer and by me.

Click! [Rewind #2]

Me: [wrong answer #2] No offense, but I believe my insurance company is picking up most of the cost and I am covering the balance.

Click! [Rewind #3]

Me: [wrong answer #3] Because it is the right thing to do? Because you care about hard working folks like me? Because I am worth more to you alive and productive than dead or bedridden sucking up money better spent on perks?

Click! [Rewind #4]

Me: [Unfortunately phrased if technically correct answer] Because I promise to vote Democrat from now on and will make a contribution to your private foundation?

Click! [Rewind #5]

The rest of the interview went just as well and I came away with a sense of total despair. Sure enough, my repeated pleas for clemency went unanswered until one day, whilst unloading all my pent up frustration against an indifferent bureaucracy to anyone still willing to listen, my heart for no particular reason just gave out. I was rushed to the emergency room of a hospital on the far side of town (the local hospitals being full up), where I was pumped with stimulants and other drugs, and parked near a nurse station because there were no more rooms available to handle the (mostly illegal) overflow. The nurse who was supposed to keep an eye on me was called away to other emergencies several times, until, on the third absence, the monitor flat-lined. The good news is I was not stuck in the hospital long enough to contract SARS.

Click! [Rewind #6]

Episode #2C ­- Resumption & Resurrection

Because I can go any minute, Dr. Hartwick applies for surgery (hopefully within a month or three) at the "Baltimore Federal Hospital-Asylum, Entertainment Multiplex, & GM Car Emporium No. 13" (formerly UMMC). To get to the hospital, you have to either park in the underground garage at $4.50/hr ($35/day) or take a cab costing substantially more (ambulances being reserved for bigwig Congressmen, their spouses, and "intimate friends") assuming you can find one willing to come down here. The garage doubles as service bay for the dealership and the only exit takes me right past the GM showroom.  So it is that, four months after seeing Hartwick, I am running a gauntlet of seedy salivating car sales-drones, all trying to get me into a "Cash for Clunkers" deal; trading away my perfectly serviceable (if faded) 1999 Explorer for a brand new SmartCar (aka, "Road-Kill 2010."  Escaping from this army of bloodsucking leaches, I find myself in front of the Multiplex, where the purchase of a combined entry-ticket and entertainment coupon-booklet is required (a steal at only $49.95) to enter the cooperative complex.   Or, so it seems having made it through the dealer gauntlet with my wallet relatively intact.

I arrive at the hospital promptly at 8:45 am (in-processing is scheduled for 9am). After filling out and signing a dozen legible if tedious forms, I am handed a decent gown, a sturdy canvas tote bag for my things and a 3-oz cup I am supposed to fill and return to the lab window. It takes a few minutes filling the cup as I was told to not eat or drink anything 12-hours prior to surgery. Forms filled out and lab samples provided, I am wheeled into a north facing room with a view of the zoo (which means I won't be bothered by bright morning sun). I am told by the duty-nurse I shouldn't get too comfortable, however, as prep for surgery will start in 15 minutes. There are several readable magazines and copies of both the Wall Street Journal and Washington Times in evidence. I peruse the Times while I wait. I am just getting comfy and into an article on little-known Civil War history when . . .

Click! [Rewind #7]

A bit frantic and out of breath, I arrive at the hospital proper at 9:47 am (in-processing was scheduled to start at 9am; but the staff are, at least, mollified I gave it my best shot). After filling out and signing dozens of many times over-photocopied forms in print too small for weak old eyes to follow, I am handed a gown (size small), a Hefty trash-bag into which I must put everything except my socks, and a many times recycled 32-oz McDonald's cup I am told to fill immediately and return to the lab window. I dither over whether it wouldn't make more sense wearing the trash-bag and tieing up my clothes in the gown, but then there's the problem where to put the sticky label identifying them as mine. It takes 3 hours to fill the cup after repeated blows to a highly metallic, sour-tasting, unsanitary, and un-obliging (dribbles instead of flows) water-fountain (all the soda machines being broken or empty, and I having no money, in any case, having put my wallet and change in the bag; which is now safely lodged deep in the bowels of a cavernous hospital vault; I having been handed a ticket for their retrieval that I am warned not to lose on pain of further embarrassment; yet, having no pocket am forced to carry it around in my right hand; my left hand being occupied with keeping the gown closed in back). The restrooms are all either occupied or out of order, so filling the cup is anywhere you can find a bit of privacy.

Forms filled out and lab samples provided, I am told to take a seat in the waiting area of the surgical unit (beds being in short supply); where, after sifting through copies of Modern Medicine, Sociology Today, Journal of Medical Malpractice & Avoidance, Ladies Day, Macrame for Morons, a collection of romance novels, and an out of date Baltimore Sun classified section, I settle on a torn page of the Wall Street Journal Opinion section headlining (what else) the continuing crisis in healthcare. I also catch bits and pieces of conversation from other patients (mostly in Spanish) who have been here longer, one of whom is living in a tent and cooking enchiladas (made from soda-crackers and others scraps) on a sterno-plate.

By early afternoon, I have not only read both sides of the single WSJ page (twice), I've also learned far more than I care to know (just then) of common medical mistakes (and their frequency). I ask, for the umpteenth time the nurse/technician/staff/doctor/whoever . . . currently occupying the desk, how much longer until I am prepped for surgery; and am told (not for the last time) they'll look into it but that they're incredibly busy (drinking coffee, filing papers, filing nails, shopping online, making personal calls, placing bets (Ravens pool), responding to doctor demands for this or that, correcting log entries (malpractice-CYA I'm guessing), rearranging their kid's day, grousing (about low pay, crappy old equipment, keeping after patients to stay in assigned rooms & clean up after themselves, lack of supplies, and rapidly deteriorating hospital conditions, etc.)).  I decide I'm being a pest and ask if there is a library or computer-link I can access. Negative on the computer, but there is a library three floors up next to the doctor's lounge, where I find a couple of minimally readable books (Sailing On $200/Day and A Brief History of Baltimore).

On returning to the Cardiology Unit, I am met by the admissions lady, who tells me, because I earn more than the Medicaid-maximum but less than the "Filthy Rich Guy" exclusion, I qualify for 80% coverage, and she hands me a promissory-note to sign for the balance. Of course, I sign thinking "this is no different than pre-Obamacare, but, fortunately, also no worse . . ."

Click! [Rewind #8]

On returning to Cardiology, I am accosted by admissions chief, Sela Biterpil, (looks remarkably like Nancy Pelosi), who has been searching everywhere to tell me there are irregularities with my financials. Apparently, I make too much to qualify for sliding-scale, but too little for the governmentally governed yet fully-privatized health co-op discount (aka, standard) rate. I have to either declare more "hidden" assets or divest myself of all personal property individually valued greater than $1,500, and collectively worth more than $36,422.12 in order to qualify for Medicaid (resubmitting with greater assets will expose me to an IRS audit with hefty fines for the previous non-disclosure, I am forewarned). She gives me more forms to sign, apparently granting the hospital unlimited power-of-attorney to look deeper into my financial situation, "make adjustments" (all under the careful scrutiny of a "disinterested" state caseworker), immunity, and to submit same to the Health Benefits Advisory Board for arbitration; which should take no more than a day or two making its determination – unless, of course, it is backlogged. As I am desperately ill (and it is too late in the day to retrieve my personal belongings), I sign. A cot is found for me and set up in a nearby supply closet, where I spend the night. As I drift off, I wonder if Chris Dodd ever got this much scrutiny.

Breakfast is served at 9 am . . .

Click! [Rewind #9]

Breakfast is made available sometime before 11 am, lunch no later than 4pm, and dinner (if you are so lucky) by midnight. One of the rooms has been converted into a self-serve feeding pit where patients wallow in and elbow each other to snatch bites of food before it's gone (Hey . . . snooze, you lose).  Mostly, though, it is too inedible for some of us (those unable to handle grease and cayenne), and mostly ends up eaten by the non-English-speaking staff; many of whom arrived as patients but found opportunities too good to pass up, and who are just doing jobs regular Americans won't (at twice minimum wage and all the "missing" supplies they can carry).

At 10:30 am, I am taken to Biterpil's office where the caseworker (think bulimic Brittany Murphy on crack) is seated, and I am introduced to Rich Dupliset, Esq. (lawyer and part-time CPA), who has gathered all my financial data and discusses which assets need liquidating, restructuring, divesting, or should be given away as "gifts to government." It is too late for shielding them in any meaningful sense, he commiserates. He takes such a long time going through details that the caseworker (who isn't quite herself today) excuses herself to take a powder. No sooner does the door close when Dupliset suggests there might be a way around parting with so much, but it will take a lot of work on his part. "How much will that cost? And, how long" I ask; to which he replies he doesn't think it will be much over $9,000 (he's vague on the how long). But, what the heck, the surgery and all medical care will be free after that, right? Biterpil studies a chipped nail and I get that sinking feeling common to extortion victims who know they are being duped into something both illegal and not in my best interest. If I expose Biterpil and Dupliset, they will deny the whole thing and I will most likely die of institutionalized neglect. If I go along, they have me and I have to protect them at all costs to protect myself. More forms are signed and I am returned to my closet in Cardiology to wait.

Episode #3 – An Affordable Replacement

In the three weeks since meeting with Dupliset, my living arrangement has been bumped several times. I am now domiciled with four others in a fenced storage area off the boiler room. Only one of the roommates speaks English (or Spanish, for that matter), and I suspect him of terrorist links as he takes an unhealthy interest in all things in the hospital poisonous and pyrotechnic (that plus the middle-eastern name, accent/complexion, prays five times a day, carries around a flight-instruction manual, and mumbles in his sleep about killing infidels and ridding the world of false-corrupt-pagan religions – but, hey, let's not profile the poor slob).

Meanwhile, I have acquired a lot of forms, medical paraphernalia, plastic bags, and bric-a-brac I have to hang onto, making me look every bit the homeless derelict (which by now I probably am). Someone kindly found me an old plastic tub to put my stuff into, but this has led to fights with other patients wanting it from me and the need for constant vigilance. My mental state suffers along with all the rest.

Yesterday, Biterpil called me in to give me the good news: my financial situation is looking up, and she has submitted the request for valve replacement surgery. The valve will be ordered from Ohio and ships next week. The surgery, valve and surgical supplies, etc. are all covered . . .

Click! [Rewind #10]

Yesterday, Biterpil called me in to give the good news: my "unfortunate" financial situation is looking a tad better, and she has submitted a request for a valve replacement and surgery on the assumption it will be approved.  The valve will be ordered from Bhopal India (to cut costs) and will ship sometime next month. The surgery is free, as promised, but the valve will cost $16,600 after the NHC offset (still exceeds the price set by government, leaving it to patients to make up any difference). At this point, I no longer have that kind of cash and my credit is tapped out. Moreover, she tells me, there have been complications with this particular valve, but I can get those adjusted anytime within the 6-month warranty; so not to worry. I ask her if there isn't some, preferably more reliable, valve available. She says, unless I know of a source of cheap, reliable aortal heart-valves, it is this or the far more expensive American-built variety. I tell her the only valve I know of like that is six-feet down in a veteran's cemetery (inside my dad's chest cavity). Hmm . . . she ponders.

The next day she tells me she can get a certifiably "road tested" valve for only $900, but wants payment up front in unmarked small bills. She refuses to say where it is from.  Because I am naturally suspicious, I push on it, but she gets angry and warns me I better act fast because at this price she can easily find other takers. I sign.

Episode #5 – Surgery Room Scene

(If you missed Episode #4, you will just have to wait for summer reruns. Next time wait for the commercial break before snacking.)

* Dramatis Personae *

Cardiac Surgeon — Dr. Amad Amar Amabo Kcarab (played by Beaurock O'Blamer)

Anesthesiologist — Dr. Balmy Tranq (played by Blarney Flank)

Plastic Sturgeon — Dr. A. Stuft Fish (played by a wall ornament)

Proctologist — Dr. Bendovar Hawkcare (played by Allen Aldo)

Pathologist — Dr. Dedwouden (played by Bella Abzug, *see note below)

Hematologist — Dr. Vlad Van Helsinki (played by Bela Lugosi)

Euthanist — Dr. Kilmore (played by Richard Shameborlame)

Ethicist — Nary A. Dowdt, Ph.D., LCSW, RSVP (played by Maureen Doubt)

Head surgical nurse — C. Ratchet (played by Hilarity Clinton)

Assisting nurse — (played by Madonnaesque)

Scrub nurse — (played by Barbara Boxershorts)

Scrub pine — (played by Tree Williams)

Scrubbed floor — (played by the Spic-N-Span guy)

Technician #1 — Conrad Gheerhed (played by Sean Pinhead)

Technician #2 — Gan Madagain (played by Spike Leak)

Candy Striper — Candy Kane (played by Katie Cordless)

Hatcheck Lady — (played by stand-in for Gloria Grahame)

Train Conductor — Chicago Clipper (played by Mayer Delay)

Cleanup Hitter — Baltimore Clipper (played by Cal Ripkin, Jr)

Administrator — Sela Biterpil (played by Nanci Paylousy)

NHC Coordinator #1 — (played by Michael the Moor)

NHC Coordinator #2 — Zack Sauer (played Keyfur Suderlund)

Typhoid Mary — Mary Mallon (played by Meryl Strep)

Cute Clueless Guy — Chip Monk (played by Gov. Martian O'Malady)

Sleeping Derelict — (played by homeless guy sleeping it off in corner)

Patient — Yars Trewley (played by yours truly)

* (Note below: Yeah, yeah, I know she's dead and it isn't nice, but Democrats have a way of recycling theirs when it suits them; so why shouldn't we. Besides, we're the ones getting the shaft, this is my weird dream, she supported universal healthcare, she looked like that even before she died, and definitely qualifies for a cast of weirdly suspicious characters.)

The day of surgery finally arrives, and I am cleaned up for the event (hosed off, given antibiotics for a drippy nose and fever, and my first clean gown in several weeks).  At 9 am, I am wheeled into surgery on a rickety old gurney and given a mild sedative (morphine laced Ripple in a drip bag). I am soon warm although the room is 66°F. The room's a little crowded and there's a lot of activity around me, but I focus mainly on the surgeon who has an easy manner despite his deathly pallor, and who vaguely reminds me of someone important (if I can only thin . . . thing . . . think . . . who . . .). The head-nurse is also remarkable, not because I recognize her . . . but that braying laugh of hers! Oy! The rest of the crew is pretty nondescript. All except for the white technician, who gives everyone the creeps . . . especially me.  When I squint, he looks just like . . . that Friday the 13^th horror-movie guy? The Grim Reaper? No, worse than that . . . more like . . . like . . . like . . . Sean Penn! Great, now, I can really worry while I'm under!

As I am passing out, Biterpil comes in with last-minute forms to sign. Then a nurse, the one with the spiky brassier, says "Just relax" while the anesthesiologist (looks like he samples his own juice) turns up the juice. I realize I must be hallucinating, because I can swear just then there's a short-skirted candy-striper in the room making out with spiky-bra. And, who is that taking home movies of . . .

Click! [Rewind #11]

And, is that Spike Leak taking home movies of my surgery?

Sometime in the middle of surgery, I come partly awake. My chest is open and there's a lot of blood. Someone realizes I'm awake because he says:

Surgeon: D@mn it, Tranq! Put the girlie magazine down and pay attention. Now, where was I? Ah, I, uh, believe this mess goes back in like so. 

Head Nurse: No, no, doctor. [Cackles] We're doing a "valve replacement," not a "heart re-section." We're still opening him up, remember.  And, please, speak your lines the way they were written. And, stand up straight.  After all, it takes a village to mend a broken heart, right people?

[mumbled assent]

Surgeon: Oh, yeah, yes . . . ah . . . I knew that. Uh . . . ah . . . oh, thank you. Hey . . . you, ah . . . Conreid, whatever your name is.  Where the heck is my prompter?

Creepy Technician: It's right in front of you Mr. Pres . . . Doctor. Someone must have tripped over the power cord again.

Surgeon: Oh, right. Thank you [Creep].

Creepy Technician: What, sir?

Surgeon: Nothing.  Just get that prompter working.

Off to one side, Biterpil is talking with a pair of National Health Cooperative goons. The fat, greasy, myopic one is complaining of remarks I once made uncomplimentary of the current administration, and recommending a lobotomy while they have me under (compliments of the NHC). How I know they are NHC goons is a mystery; except it's in the script, I suppose. That's all I overhear because, just then, I go back to sleep . . .

[fade to black]

Episode #13 – The Long Goodbyes

(Episodes 6-12 were really funny, but the location director made me cut material both left and right [politically] because the sponsor wants this wrapped. He did promise he'd fill in key missing shots back in the CGI lab, but, with all the rationing, I suppose that will get cut too.)

Post-surgery, my family is informed that, although the valve replacement went beautifully, there was a period when my heart wouldn't restart and they should expect some loss of mental acuity. The wife soon files for divorce as the only means to avoid complete indigence; especially after receiving the surprise (and unreported) compensation without resort to a lawsuit (that, and with the tax changes there's no further advantage to her staying married, and no reason to waste remaining assets on a vegetable. Also, there was the private conversation with the NHC goons warning her to keep silent or her own healthcare entitlement could be reclassified: "no further value to society").  My kid can't stand being around his "Veggie-Pop," and eventually turns to drink and drugs as compensation for his failed, fatherless life. I spend several more weeks in the hospital until every ounce of entitlement is drained from me. The SUV has long since been seized as abandoned property and to payoff back tag & title.  Eventually, I am placed in long-term care . . . until such time I am considered more liability than asset; at which point I am quietly "retired" (except, of course, I change my voter registration to Democrat post-mortem). Omid, the longtime roommate and sometime psychopath/terrorist (also winds up at the sanitarium – but, that is another episode), is the only one to really miss me.

As I leave the hospital (again via the garage, the transport attendants leave me a few minutes to sneak in a doobie break, during which time I somehow sign up for that SmartCar; except it now costs $52,422 (it was $21,500 when I came in). The dealership later sues me for non-payment of a car I never drove off his lot. While I was in the hospital, the entertainment center has been boarded up and became a hangout for gangs and dope-pushers; and the dealership is selling used SUVs (now in huge demand, including mine) and luxury sedans to drug-dealers and pimps they picked up cheap from the government disposal unit in the wake of the "Cash for Clunkers" fiasco and subsequent corruption scandal. Outside, the once clean streets are lined with hospital applicants/derelicts waiting to get in, and strewn with rubbish and SmartWrecks. The once proud Inner Harbor is closed until further notice (which is where the cops found me wandering before returning me to my attendants, both of whom swear I managed my own escape).  Stay tuned . . .

Then, of course, I wake with a start from this day-mare to find all is normal and nothing to worry about.  Right?

Anyway, that's my vision of the liberal hallucination. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I . . .

Click!  [Rewind to Start]

Not So Fast & Furious Footnotes:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/18/health/policy/18talkshows.html?pagewanted=1&_r=3&partner=rss&emc=rss

Recently, Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sibelius announced Obama was "willing to cooperate" by considering a Senate proposal for a nonprofit health cooperative to assume the role he would rather have assigned to government. The next day, Obama denied he'd caved to opposition; yet, almost unnoticed, he left open the question of surrogacy. Many opponents of healthcare reform appear to be breathing a collective sigh of relief in the belief (or hope) Obama is feeling the heat and really is backing away from state-run healthcare. But is he, and would a surrogate really matter?  This alternative proposal puts healthcare administration into the hands of a purportedly "private cooperative," but the suggestion this would be anything but a front for government is laughable (http://www.clubforgrowth.org/2009/06/the_trojan_coop.php). If anything, an NGO on the model of ACORN or a quasi-governmental public-private corporation like Fannie-Mae only assures the dividends of state-funded and regulated healthcare flow exclusively through Democrat hands, regardless of future party dominance. Moreover, it gives Congress and government officials (including Republicans) deniability when this results in waste, abuse, and rationing. All this suggests either a preference for the NGO portability or a long planned fallback position, with the Sibelius "gaff" an intentional floater with which to gauge acceptance both public and Republican.

The Denial came hard on the heels of an unexpectedly angry liberal-socialist reaction denouncing any reduction in direct federal control. Obama responded by denying anything had changed (true, mostly) and that he was not the source of the gaff, thereby mending his bona fides as caped crusader and reassuring the faithful the Utopia Express remains on track. To his credit, he refrained from nudging Sibelius under liberal hooves; but, given his history, I can't help but think she must be feeling the heat. So, if Obama is back-peddling on anything, it is on using a non-profit cooperative organization as a front for government.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reconciliation_(U.S._Congress)

Meanwhile, Democrat strategists are contemplating a ploy called Reconciliation to preclude Republican filibustering efforts. Reconciliation sounds fairly harmless . . . until you realize it gives Republicans an opportunity to weasel on healthcare without seeming to weasel. Other problems facing passage include: Congressional Democrat disaffection with federal-stewardship, voter resistance, and senators striking "non-budgetary" items out of the bill (including provisions sacred to the liberal base) during reconciliation.   According to Politico, Obama may even be demanding weak Congressional Democrats put their seats on the line to guarantee this stinker floats. 

Real Clear Politics, David Harsanyi notes Obama has shifted from denouncing opponents as mobsters to denouncing us as "heretics," and has rolled out religion with which to bless his healthcare agenda.  Harsanyi sums up by quoting C.S. Lewis (who knew a thing or two about religion) that: "It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies."

http://abcnews.go.com/2020/Stossel/Story?id=8358377&page=2

ABC News, John Stossell argues we should drop the "end of life counseling" thing as a false and counterproductive premise . . . yet, I am persuaded by the growth in cases like Terry Schiavo's and swarms of self-proclaimed liberal "ethicists" appearing, virtually, from nowhere; suggesting this is headed right where these critics say it does.

http://www.reason.com/news/show/135499.html

Ronald Bailey at Reason Magazine writes: "Obama and Sebelius have both hinted at an alternative to the hated private insurers — health insurance co-ops — and have started talking more about the importance of competition in general.  "There will be a competitor to private insurers," Sebelius added in her CNN appearance.  "That's really the essential part, is you don't turn over the whole new marketplace to private insurance companies and trust them to do the right thing."  Don't turn the whole thing over to private insurers?!  What planet has she been living on? As things stand, private insurers have been carrying the ball for the last 150 years and doing a fairly creditable job. Suddenly, Obama & Co. comes along and puts government in competition against them on the comical basis: we need "a competitor to private insurers;" insinuating government and government controlled insurance cooperatives will be somehow "less corrupt." Liberal Congressional supporters of the co-op idea have insinuated they'll only buy into the co-op model if it is national in extent; they set payout rates, and it is dominated by Congressionally-approved presidential appointees. This still leaves the "national health-coop" with powerful advantages over ordinary providers; including private-insurers will remain limited to states where licensed, whereas the co-op will operate nationally, private-insurers still have to negotiate rates with providers whereas the NHC's rates will be fixed and lower with doctors forced to accept NHC rates as payment-in-full (no getting the difference from patients other than a government fixed co-pay), and private-insurers will still be subject to the full panoply of mandated services while the NHC can provide options tailored to actual needs and preferences. This is their idea of "leveling the playing field"?

http://theplumline.whorunsgov.com/president-obama/obama-to-hold-live-health-care-strategy-conference-call-with-rank-and-file-supporters/

Not so surprisingly, Obama takes his case to his own base in what is touted as a virtual (RSVP-only) town-hall in which he fervently hopes his supporters will brainstorm him some ideas with which to regain the lost momentum (can anyone here say "What? The 'Oh, Man' needs help being brilliant?"). I suspect he may also be trying to sell that "surrogate" thing to a more "centrist" constituency without the more radical supporters blowing his cover. Note also, Obama is targeting the religious-left here (confirming Harsanyi's opinion) and is making a lot of biblically referenced remarks with which to make his pitch, suggesting he's trying a more positive spin-cycle to whitewash the grassroots stain.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB125055374572138617.html

Comments on difficulty of communicating (translating) Obama's message via cronies (garbled).  WSJ thinks this is a matter of confusion, but I'd call it more a "studied confusion;" which gets only wider the more it has utility. Or, maybe, it is simply that, anyway you frame this particular con, he runs the risk some town-hall wise-guy will see through and out him. What's a politician to do?  Sow confusion and then deny the inevitable allegations as misrepresentation. Dress it up anyway you will, it remains a pig in high-heels and lipstick.

http://www.stopobamahealthcarereform.us/?gclid=CIi7pcqZsJwCFSGF7Qod7g6Rkg – medical practitioners opposed to healthcare reform

http://www.insurancejournal.com/news/national/2009/05/20/100709.htm – In case you were imagining Republicans as the "anti-statists" standing between us and our hijacked healthcare, check out their own agenda: medical tax credits, state insurance pools, expanded benefit guarantees, guarantees of insurability, and penalties for non-complying insurers.  If you have been following Newt Gingrich's "American Solutions" website, you will recognize American Solutions as the source for some of this.  It may be "less radical," but that's not much of an improvement.  What's wrong with just doing nothing?  Answer: it doesn't garner votes, leaving all the advantage to the Dems.

 - Both Democrats and Republicans are jockeying for position, but even more than that they are edging toward an eventual compromise each can call a win. When that happens, the rest of us will surely lose.

http://www.realclearpolitics.com/video/2009/08/21/gibbs_obama_willing_to_be_one-term_president_to_pass_health_care.html – Real Clear Politics: Press Sec Robert Gibbs says Obama willing to be a one-term President in order to pass healthcare reform.  I guess that's what really unnerves us about this guy (i.e., he doesn't just talk the nuclear option).

- Senator Kyl confirms Democrats (as a group) will resort to nuclear option to get HCR.

Issues with Insurance Cooperatives

http://www.sj-r.com/homepage/x631623541/Insurance-co-op-dispute-part-of-city-budget-struggle – documents billing irregularities and unwritten agreements

http://www.emaxhealth.com/1275/72/32878/health-insurance-cooperatives-are-another-alternative.html – a medical opinion of health coops (and what this says of medical opinion – too close to the problem?)

http://prescriptions.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/17/so-whats-a-health-insurance-coop-anyway/ – problems in establishing new co-ops out of thin air

http://www.ask.com/bar?q=problems+with+my+insurance+cooperative+&page=2&qsrc=2106&ab=1&u=http%3A%2F%2Fkeithhennessey.com%2F2009%2F06%2F18%2Fconrads-coop%2F – good discussion of the whole co-op angle

http://www.healthreformwatch.com/2009/08/17/jost-on-cooperatives-are-cooperatives-a-reasonable-alternative-to-a-public-plan/ – apparently even some advocates of health reform have problems with the coop idea

And, you thought my daydream was weird!  The liberal reality is just as weird and you couldn't write this stuff except as imitation if you tried.