“Hurts When I Bleed”
By Malka
Warning: due to complex sentence structure and angry
sub-expletives, contents should not be operated with heavy machinery. Take
with food.
That the practice of medicine should come to such a
sorry pass in the leading First World country is just another grain in the
sandpaper that tears at our hemorrhoids. Many have skewered the ineptitude
of Western medicine in its treatment of chronic illnesses, but our society
remains drenched in unfairness and stupidity. There is no cure for this
collective brain lesion…none, anyway, which would rival the profits gained
from a non-curative drug that controlled symptoms and had to be purchased
regularly over the span of decades.
So, which blistering malpractice do I lance first? I’m
particularly incensed by the insurance company which assures me that my
monthly payment, collected by a surly dickwad clad in a long black robe who
feebly drags a bloody sickle in the path of my angry shadow, should be
reduced as my prospects of childbirth diminishes. When I finally do
become an age where spawning evil should become an unlikelihood, are they
going to argue that my costs remain high because I’m older and thus more
likely to shatter my cranium or require an esophagus tumor removal? When
will they be satisfied that my monthly expenditures as an uninsured
government mule, with no government assistance, leave me at poverty level?
When will I be granted a Papal dispensation for the years that I’d paid into
the system for absolutely no eye, dental, or drug coverage while being
sucked for a usurious fee on an annual basis? When are these leeching pricks
going to feel the very same revolting sting that they administer every time
they plunge into my puckered and bleeding bank account? This is like having
an ex-spouse, only worse, because I never got laid for the privilege of
being bilked for my cash. If I’m getting beaned in the butt, I prefer for it
to be obvious. Mr. Insurance Man, show me your cock!
And the drug companies. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten
started, because now my nostril hairs are seared. I have spent a great
portion of my lifetime as a governmental/medical experimental drug rat, and
I advise in a violently spleen-spewing way that you ignore televised drug
advertisements and that you research, via internet and library resources,
every pill you caress with your tonsils. Again, I was screwed without the
displeasure of meeting my rapist, and am now only beginning to understand
how thoroughly they took me. They don’t care about you. In fact they would
absolutely hate you if you weren’t so eager to give them your money. Why
would you give anything to anyone who hates you?
Why?
ASK YOUR DOCTOR. Unfortunately, your doctor will have
neither the time nor incentive to give you an informed answer because he’s
either too busy having his anus retucked after the fuckfest he endured for
paying his exorbitant malpractice insurance, or that good doctor will
be earning a part of that insurance toe-tag by prescribing high cost meds
for a drug company kickback. That’s right, your own family MD could be an
advertisement for the latest Celebrex, or perhaps the most expensive pimple
cream in the entire world. If your uterus is beginning to hang out of your
fur burger or your hemorrhoids are starting to sing, go directly to Ely
Lilly Pharmaceuticals. After all, they’re the kind folk who, eight years
ago, brought my psychotic depressive breakdown to fruition. I never had so
much fun in my life. No, really, it was so frolicsome being their
laboratory hamster, of the restless and psychotic knife-wielding variety
that you always see on TV that beckons you to purchase more consumer
perversions.
Mamma always warned me to watch what I put in my mouth.
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