'My friend works for the national health, Doctor Robert. Don't pay money just to see yourself with Doctor Robert'

Boy the mob is up in arms over the imminent arrival of socialized health care.

It seems an odd mixture of dumb-as-post salt-of-the-earth types, pitchforks and torches in hand, coupled with the occasional flat out loons screaming like banshees at any microphone within reach.

Their empty heads filled no doubt with fearful grainy black and white images of endless lines of the sick snaking around the block, waiting for their turn to see 'the doctor' at the Government 'facility'. Perhaps having first traveled across the country simply because they were assigned to a medical facility alphabetically, per Government directive 181.1120-2..1102201-1234, page 10832, para. 2. Like a scene out of 'Pink Floyd's The Wall' or '1984'.

Finally, their child on death's door, they get to see one of the 'doctors'.

Ahh, yes, 'The Doctors'. The Polly Peabrains and Nick Numbskulls no doubt envision a faceless army of GS-9 grade civil servants with perhaps only a couple of high school biology classes under their belts, former DMV and IRS workers 'retrained' as medical health care providers through a two week correspondence course followed by a grade 'C' school on 'advanced' surgery for the brightest bulbs (those who manage to put their own clothes on in the morning).

Yes, locked and loaded and ready for surgery - once you've dotted all the 'i's and crossed all the 't's on a mountain of forms, each of which is written in Kiswahili. So you better invest in Berlitz language training and deal with the carpal tunnel if you want that transplant for your kid.

All this as Barack Hussein Lenin Obama, the first Kenyan Communist President, finally lowers his veil and raises the hammer and sickle over the White house lawn, chuckling at the fine precision of it all.

"Muahhh, muahhh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

Obama rubs his hands together and howls with devious laughter, super-villain style before issuing the evening 'death pronouncements' on TV in fluent Kiswahili.

Yes, we all listen intently to the nightly Death Pronouncements: the ceremonial rattling off of the list of folks who'll be marched into the incineration machines the following day, sort of a mixture of the 'renewal' Carousal machines of Logan's Run (Farrah's greatest role til she burned that bed) and the 'death by forced LSD overdose' in the 'old people' commune-prisons of 'Wild In the Street' ('14 or fight!' with a very young Pryor).


Wild in the Street's acid prisons are the more apt analogy for the incineration machines to come. That movie has some chilling parallels to present day events, culminating in the election of a very charismatic, young 'rock star' president. In other words, stick out your tongue and prepare to get dosed - happy traveling to psychedelic insanity, my fellow true 'free market' Americans. The commies have truly won and Hollywood has been planning this since 1968.

But what's with the Kiswahili, you ask?

Why it's the newly mandated official language of the Socialist Kenyan United States of America (SKUSA), ratified by the Central Committee and enforced under the penalty of death by Rahm Emanuel's Radical Left Wing Blogger Boot Cops (sort of a new age techno-savvy KGB/Storm Tropper/SS style outfit).

It seems so clear.

If it all wasn't a pile of paranoid shit with no basis in fact.

Yes, it is all very grand to make fun of these folks, and the Daily Show is having a field day with 'Healther Skelter' and Government run 'Death Panels' and what not but even Mr. Cool is growing tired, it's clear, of having to constantly deny the ridiculous.

But deny he does and this very act unfortunately lends at least a sliver of credence to the fabrication. In 'Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail', Hunter Thompson recounts a story to make a point regarding this political reality: LBJ, during an early campaign, apparently instructed his campaign manager to start a rumor that his opponent had had carnal knowledge of his farm animals. When his campaign manager objected that no one would believe it, LBJ said he realized that. 'But let's make him have to deny it anyway.'

But it's health care, and people are passionate.

As Thorton Melon said in 'Back to School' about batshit crazy Professor Terguson: 'Good teacher. He really seems to care. About what I have no idea.'

And that's the problem with getting any kind of health care bill passed that isn't so watered down it floats away and/or filled to squealing with appeasement pork. The pitchfork/torch, batshit crazy/banshee wailing constituents put The Fear into the boys and gals on the hill.

Senators and Congressmen have for the most part not been known for their intestinal fortitude or for having any sort of balls. As in 'having hootspa (nerves, guts)', not as in 'tea-bagging Congressional Pages' or 'dangling under an airport men's room shitter stall as mating signal' - they seem to have plenty of balls for those sort of activities.

So all you aspiring MDs slaving away at the DMV and the IRS might still have to complete an accredited medical school and some form of residency in order to get a license to practice 'your craft' on people in this country. At least for a time.

But keep a sharp eye and a loaded gun, fellow Freedom Riders!

We must at whatever cost protect our free market private health insurance, such as that provided by fine companies like Old Glory. Does The Government really think some civil servant is gonna protect our senior citizens from the onslaught of medicine-fueled robots? Hell, the malevolent metal ones likely sprung to life from a screw up at some over priced government run research program in the first place.

Sista Sarah, oh Freedom-lovin' Angel from the Yukon - wing down to the lower 48 and stop 'em 'fore they legislate ...