|by Dr. Prurient|
The Plan, as I will heretofore refer to it, is serious. Or as my colleague Chuck Deathhammer has said: Very, very, serious. And seriously erotic. Does the thought of giving insurance company CEOs a bonus while reducing health care for those pesky lingering seniors who refuse to die (you hear me, Grandma?) give you a rager? Of course it does! If they had lived moral upright lives they would be rich by now anyway. Hey, if you choose to fritter away your life in some dead-end, low-paying job like teaching ghetto kids how to read, who's to blame except yourself? You could have been selling derivatives for Goldman-Sachs; don't come crying to Joe Taxpayer because you squandered your life helping others and now you have breast cancer but you can't pay for chemo. Perhaps you should have done what George Bush did: He retired and then published a ghost-written best-seller to supplement his lifelong pension and medical benefits and his meager inheritance of millions upon millions of dollars from his mom and dad. How about trying that before you hold out your hand for some chemo-dollars? I suppose you want some radiation therapy too, you greedy bitch? Geez, I'll send you a check already...stupid experimental drugs. (Well there goes my new boat by the way.)
And look at poor Chuckie. His wheelchair doesn't even have a flag or a backpack or a sticker even. Well, I'd better find something else to be angry about. I planned to catch so much marlin in the gulf too....