They squared off - the bully, the clench-jawed jocks, the wonky geeks. Everyone had to have their say. And oh, the things that were said. She was a high-priced call girl. She couldn't be trusted - she'd stab you in the back. In fact, she'd Buffy you with a death-panel stake the minute you let your guard down.
But some disagreed, and said she was a budding homecoming queen, who only needed to be crowned.
After a while, you had to wonder if everyone was talking about the same person. After all, no one knew her. You couldn't even pick her out of a crowd of bills.
It was only when we got close enough to get a good look - when we started to get interested - that was when Miss high and mighty insurance went ballistic. You know who I'm talking about. That for-profit head-cheerleader with the big hair and more meanness than brains, the one who screamed at us in the lunch room over a broken nail. Slapped us with a manicured surcharge. Dumped us in front of everyone. Then demanded we pay for the prom. For her and her friends.
Before you know it, every time we tried to get close to the new girl, even have a conversation with a buddy to find out the healthcare reform situation, we'd get for-profit stalked. Threatening phone calls. Harassment. Scrawled lies arriving in the mail every day. And money was no object. She had the gall to hand out whopping piles of Viagra - and even our fevered, hormonally raging brains had to wonder, "WTF? As if that's our problem?" After insisting for years that we pay for everything, I mean everything, the for-profit beyotch was burning through mountains of cash. Literally. All of her mega-wealth was spent pitting us against each other, spreading rumors, breeding discord that multiplied like a Supernatural spewing nest of cockroaches.
It was like we were possessed - the screaming, the thrashing, the spitting. Even Sam and Dean, and a dump truck of rock salt, couldn't have contained this pure an evil. Heck, it would have been a relief if we could have just woken up one day and found, as a gift from the for-profit divas, merely a stockpot full of pet rabbit.
Who can save us from healthcare reform possession?
And what was healthcare reform doing during all this? There were the typical fake learn-your-lesson starter boyfriends. Joe was flat out abusive, and after rebound Ted, who left her bereft, she met Scott, who claimed he was a close buddy of Ted's even as he moved in for the drugged assault. And then, well, healthcare reform got feisty. She got an edge. She changed from Sandy into Rizzo right before our eyes. And not in a good way. For a price, she'd go with anyone. She was everything to everybody, and we started to wonder what happened to that shampoo-commercial gloss we'd admired so much, so long ago. And our peeps, the ones who said they'd rally and make sure we ended up happily together - those peeps zombied on us. Their faces senseless and unresponsive, clumping forward following unseen commands, they stripped flesh and banned abortions and barricaded the door to the public option. Suddenly we were trapped in a lobbyist's deserted warehouse, dust drifting down dark rafters, and we knew, in that moment, what was behind ALL this horror, what embodied the worst we'd been through.
Pre-existing conditions, that's who - a source of evil overlord power that would never die. Never. Unless we took the law into our own hands.
Some might call what we did murder, but the fact is, it was pure self-defense. Cornered, with no other choices, we stabbed it and stabbed it and stabbed it in the heart, but it kept coming back up from the legislative bathwater. Finally, with 216 of the gang, we imploded the freaking thing, a geyser of filth and death and rotting unnecessary lives leaving gore stuck to our cheeks.
Ew.
And then we realized, with a shuddery inhale, that it was finally over.
Sort of. Because in the heady rush of victory, the swelling crescendo of triumph, we climaxed with healthcare reform. Only afterward, for the first time, did we get a good look at her. Where'd those designer stilettos come from? Those glittering scalpel-sharp jewels? And underneath the adornment, she's looking kind of gaunt. And brittle. Like maybe she'll be screaming at us in lunchroom tomorrow. What happened to the healthy sheen we admired? The solid strength? What possessed us? And what's going to be the product of this conception?
But hey, maybe she'll blossom. Maybe we can rebuild the smoking wreck of our town. Now, instead of three months before we pass the point of no return, we've got three years to see how she gestates. And dang, even if we're talking an obvious Rosemary's baby, there's no abortion option on this one. Not any more...
Share in the comments section - are you feeling the afterglow, now that healthcare reform has been consummated? Or are you frantically, before it's too late, looking for a Plan B pack at the pharmacy? Feel free to forward this along to others you think might be interested. Keep up on the latest health issues in the news by signing up for a Doc Gurley RSS feed by clicking here. Check out Doc Gurley - discover the weird, the wacky and the everyday symptoms you want to know about, as well as practical expert tips on staying well. Want to express your inner fan-girl/boy? Become a Doc Gurley fan on Facebook! Want to be on the inside, fast track of health news and tips? Jump on the Twitter bandwagon and follow Doc Gurley! Also check out Doc Gurley's joyhabit and iwellth twitter feeds - so you can get topic-specific fun, effective, affordable tips on how to nurture your joy and grow your wellth this coming year.
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