The quieter he is, the more harm he’s doing:
Back in May, I tried to schedule a mammogram. I had a prescription from my then-primary physician, so I called the hospital that was in my shitty then-insurance network to make an appointment.
The person doing the scheduling told me the prescription didn’t have enough information on it for them to know what to do. I suggested they call the doctor and ask. She told me no, I had to go back to the doctor and get the right prescription.
“Then what is the right information?” I asked. She told me I’d have to ask the doctor.
Now, this doctor doesn’t really believe in being helpful. She charged me a $40 co-pay just to some in and ask a question, so I said, “Fuck that,” and figured I could wait another five years.
Yesterday morning, I got a call from the same hospital, saying they wanted to help me schedule the mammogram.
“You mean the one I tried to schedule five months ago?” I said. “I already have another primary care doctor and an appointment for a mammogram.”
Now, I have a friend who had breast cancer, and she told me she has the exact same problem: If it doesn’t have exactly the right code, they won’t do it. Then my sister told me the same thing. Am I the only person who didn’t know this?
I made it to Sept. 1 without having a heart attack or a stroke or being in a major accident. And now, I have real grown-up Medicare and I don’t have to worry about paying for doctor visits!
WHAT A RELIEF.
We were on the porch at my shack in the Tinicum swamp. “Swine was all I could swipe at the SuperFridge,” Swamp Rabbit said as he placed a few hot dogs on my hibachi. “Couldn’t even steal no sardines.”
I’m no swine fan, but I wasn’t complaining. It was 9 p.m., almost dark, and my cupboard was bare except for some stale wheat bread. We wrapped the wieners in the wheat bread and ate them while we jawed about the presidential race.
The first round of debates ended more than a week ago. Eric Swalwell (who?) has dropped out but billionaire hedge fund manager (ugh) Tom Steyer has jumped in. The herd hasn’t yet thinned, though most of the two dozen-or-so candidates are and will remain almost unknown except in their home states.
“They know they got zero chances but they want to brag to their grandkids that they ran for president,” Swamp Rabbit said after complaining there was no ketchup in my shack.
You’re right, I told him. If Beto O’Rourke, John Hickenlooper and Steve Bullock weren’t delusional egotists they would recognize that a Democratic president won’t be able to undo many of Trump’s dirty deeds unless she or he has a Democratic Senate and House to work with. They would run for Senate seats in their respective states, not for president.
And Kirsten Gillibrand would admit she’s a shallow opportunist who is likely to be remembered only for her leading role in chasing the progressive Al Franken out of the Senate for minor sexual misconduct. And Bill De Blasio would quit making a fool of himself. And anti-vaxxer Marianne Williamson would just go away. And…
“I don’t need to hear you run through the whole list,” Swamp Rabbit said. “The only ones got a real chance are Biden, Sanders, Warren, maybe Harris and maybe that little guy with the goofy name — Bootyjuggs, I think.”
I reminded the rabbit that only Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren have crafted boldly progressive plans for changing the rigged system that gave us the enormous gulf between rich and poor, the student-loan racket, the health insurance racket and all those other symptoms of a failing democracy.
And that Biden and Harris, although they differ on some social issues, are both corporate candidates, meaning they’re being funded mostly by the powerful entities that have been dismantling New Deal-style democracy for more than 40 years.
“Blah blah,” the rabbit said. “Save all that jive for later. The Dems got one job this year — to get behind the candidate who will win enough states to get rid of that spray-tanned Mussolini in the White House. Ain’t nothing else matters if that don’t happen.”