On Obamacare: A Worst-Case Scenario
A woman nervously looking about steps into
the secretary of states office and looks around
before her herding instinct kicks in and she slides
to the back of the line. She looks at the ceiling,
mostly, imagining how much shorter the line would
be if it were split between ceiling-walkers and
normal people. She’d probably be the only one in
line, if that were the case. I am stamping, though
I wouldn’t say I’m all too pleased about it. She
will not leave this place for the next nine months.
She eventually leaks to the front of the line, and I
scowl, “What do you want, mouthbreather?”
“I want to have a kid.” “You know it’s not easy,
having a kid.” “Yeah I know that.” “You have
to feed them twice a day, you know that right?”
“I thought it was three times.” “You’re mistaken.”
“Don’t tell me how to parent.” “Don’t tell me how
to do my job.” “Fine.” “You’re damn right.
(Metaphorical: Blows Smoke Off Gun Barrels, And
After A Full Spin, Buries Them In Their Holsters).
You’ve been in the wrong line.” I point to the wall.
“Go to the wall and get a piece of paper that says
‘Being a Parent in a Free Society.’ Fill it out
to the best of your ability, then get in the line,”
I point again, “that says acquisitions, color code orange.”
“Why not pink or blue?” “All children are born sexless,
and plus orange is way brighter.” “Umm…okay,
thanks for your help.” I’m already waving on
the next person in line. She walks to the wall
and after some time grabs “Being a Parent in a
Free Society,” quickly fills it out and gets in the
acquisitions line. She will not leave this place
for the next nine months. After a grueling couple
of hours she will arrive at the acquisitions re-directory
and show them her form. They will take the form,
warn her about having children, then send her
to a grey room where she stands on the reflective side
of a one way mirror and is told that she must pick
the sex of the person who artificially inseminates her,
and that there is a man and a woman behind the mirror,
the man on the left and the woman on the right, and, no
she absolutely cannot inseminate herself (Jesus
wasn’t burnt in a day, is the usual justification). She
eventually goes with the man on the right. He looks
normal, and she is for some reason relieved, although
nobody’s looking. He will grab a vial of grey semen and
escort her to a chair designed for getting women
pregnant. The sperm will slide into her womb gently,
and she will smile at the man, but he will be wearing
sunglasses. She then will exit the room and enter a
series of three lines, labeled 1st, 2nd, and 3rd trimesters (in
that order) and after nine months in these lines, she will
have a child. She must then teach it to wait in line,
like the rest of us.
A woman nervously looking about steps into
the secretary of states office and looks around
before her herding instinct kicks in and she slides
to the back of the line. She looks at the ceiling,
mostly, imagining how much shorter the line would
be if it were split between ceiling-walkers and
normal people. She’d probably be the only one in
line, if that were the case. I am stamping, though
I wouldn’t say I’m all too pleased about it. She
will not leave this place for the next nine months.
She eventually leaks to the front of the line, and I
scowl, “What do you want, mouthbreather?”
“I want to have a kid.” “You know it’s not easy,
having a kid.” “Yeah I know that.” “You have
to feed them twice a day, you know that right?”
“I thought it was three times.” “You’re mistaken.”
“Don’t tell me how to parent.” “Don’t tell me how
to do my job.” “Fine.” “You’re damn right.
(Metaphorical: Blows Smoke Off Gun Barrels, And
After A Full Spin, Buries Them In Their Holsters).
You’ve been in the wrong line.” I point to the wall.
“Go to the wall and get a piece of paper that says
‘Being a Parent in a Free Society.’ Fill it out
to the best of your ability, then get in the line,”
I point again, “that says acquisitions, color code orange.”
“Why not pink or blue?” “All children are born sexless,
and plus orange is way brighter.” “Umm…okay,
thanks for your help.” I’m already waving on
the next person in line. She walks to the wall
and after some time grabs “Being a Parent in a
Free Society,” quickly fills it out and gets in the
acquisitions line. She will not leave this place
for the next nine months. After a grueling couple
of hours she will arrive at the acquisitions re-directory
and show them her form. They will take the form,
warn her about having children, then send her
to a grey room where she stands on the reflective side
of a one way mirror and is told that she must pick
the sex of the person who artificially inseminates her,
and that there is a man and a woman behind the mirror,
the man on the left and the woman on the right, and, no
she absolutely cannot inseminate herself (Jesus
wasn’t burnt in a day, is the usual justification). She
eventually goes with the man on the right. He looks
normal, and she is for some reason relieved, although
nobody’s looking. He will grab a vial of grey semen and
escort her to a chair designed for getting women
pregnant. The sperm will slide into her womb gently,
and she will smile at the man, but he will be wearing
sunglasses. She then will exit the room and enter a
series of three lines, labeled 1st, 2nd, and 3rd trimesters (in
that order) and after nine months in these lines, she will
have a child. She must then teach it to wait in line,
like the rest of us.
-"You’d better tell the Captain we’ve got to land as soon as we can. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital."
--"A hospital? What is it?"
-"It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now."
--"A hospital? What is it?"
-"It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now."
