The gulf is wide. Our own neighbors and friends uninsured, or at best underinsured. And yet drone technology advanced and invested in. A chauffeur for your senator. A no-bid contract for Haliburton to help mop up the human suffering in Iraq. Prescribed fish oil entitled Lovaza is for the entitled at $240.00 for a one month supply. GlaxoSmithKline used a golden blender to mutilate its catch from the North Sea. Lucky for me my wife is powerfully insured. So I get it for ten dollars. I have another ten years to live because she was at the right place at the right time when landing the only graphic design job with benefits in a thirty mile radius. Twenty years ago fish oil was quack. Now it’s prescribed. Drops triglycerides, staves off pancreatitis. Of course only the Lovaza is concentrated with 1000 squeezed and wrung out fish per capsule. The stuff in the grocery store isn’t as potent, and who would know without medical counsel that fish can keep diabetes at bay?
We cannot afford this culture anymore. Turn off the radio, the television, the major “newspaper” on the Internet. Yesterday the latter prescribed to the elite of planet earth (Hollywood actors at the Oscars), in order to get more “hits” so Lockheed Martin and Kraft mayonnaise will advertise with it. It was a twitter photo of the healthy and insured laughing in the know that no one they love or like shall ever need for basic care. I watched the Red Carpet pre-Oscar with some friends and alluded to the sham that is the Oscar ceremony. The producers do their best to show the world these scripted humanoids as folks appearing just like themselves on television. The viewers at home don’t see the army of personal aids and body guards waiting beside black SUV’s in the street. I see them. I see my governor too spending our money on his hair spray, the 10 mpg SUV, and sometimes, in moments of state crisis, the trooper chopper trip to the latest online tragedy. I see the waste, the avarice, the fear. I see Angelina Jolie having a double mastectomy and a tanning session on the same day because she can afford to be preemptive. Risk her career at any moment to demand all women that opportunity NOW—ho boy. Never ever.
That is because we, as media denizens of planet earth, are unable to separate the good from the bad. But I will try. The last good Oscar ceremony occurred way back in 2003 when Michael Moore accepted his award for best documentary, Bowling For Columbine; just a few days before our tax money was used to shock and awe (euphemism for “shrapnel imbed”) other people’s children several thousand miles away, Moore found the courage to speak out among a populace of fantastically immoral and ignorant human beings—not only the crowd of lowly actor Cro-magnon men and their tanned-cleavage women, but an entire nation of tuned-in bored and slothful enemies of its own species. Later, that incredibly talented, renaissance man sleazeball Steve Martin, boasted of his ability to act under pressure as MC and sweep under the rug our immense national shame—a wealthy American, Michael Moore, burdened with a stinging conscience.
The cats above are of a species without universal health care. Damn spoiled sports. What do they expect? They don’t pay taxes to support a congressional staff of horrible human beings. They should be happy with what they get from trickle-down medionomics. A diabetes-making diet from Purina and a night at the Oscars with any Barbie doll ding dong of the human comedy.