A Canadian Doctor on Socialized Medicine
I got up at 2:30 AM, as usual, to hitch-hike to work at my clinic. You have to be careful of the RCMP death patrols that enforce the dusk to dawn curfew to prevent looting by the desperate, hungry masses of Canadians, struggling to find the bare necessities of life in the face of the incompetence and brutality of the socialized, bureaucratized Canadian system of government. I have to live 50 miles outside of town of course, in the Bush, to avoid the property taxes of 50% of annual income applied to all homes in the city. That, on top of the 98% marginal tax rates applied to anyone making more than $10,000 year, and your descendants could be in debt to the government to the tenth generation -- or, sent to the Uranium mines.
A furtive driver I knew, barely managing twenty miles per hour in his refurbished Ford Model A, stopped for me.
"Can you help my daughter with an abortion, Doc? She was gang-raped by her Ontario Works social workers."
"Do you have a coat-hanger?"
"I'll have to break into the Wall-Mart in town, but I can bribe the security with forged ration cards. Computer training comes in handy!"
"Can do, buddy."
After only a few close calls from the RCMP helicopter gunships -- they're so drunk on Molson Canadian, they can hardly see, let alone shoot -- we arrived at the grey, windowless, bunker-like structure of the People's Clinic. I was overwhelmed by the smell of urine, vomit, excrement, blood and decomposing flesh, marking the hospital like a neon sign from blocks away. The screams became more audible as we approached.
The head nurse met me at the door.
"Twenty more dead babies in the children's ward, doctor. No apparent cause of death."
"Usual procedure. Junior Nurse on the Ward takes the hit. Public show trial, execution by a single bullet in the back of her head, sell her bodily organs on the black market for the benefit of the people's clinic. Her family pays for the bullet."
I checked the medicine cabinet. A few bottles of bayer aspirin. Some vitamins. A few sleeping tablets.
For the total pharmaceutical needs of a full-service hospital servicing 2,000 patients.
Those socialized drug companies were really stepping up to the plate!
I checked my schedule. Four open-heart surgeries, two brain transplants, eight amputations -- I kept forgetting which limb on those , but, no one's perfect -- all before noon. Then things would get a bit hectic.
Sometimes I dreamed of going to the United States. The Land of the Free. Free Market Medicine and Medical Research. But then the implant put in my brain by the Royal Canadian Ministry of Health and Disinformation was triggered, producing a level of pain roughly equivalent to having one's fingernails pulled out, being drawn and quartered and flayed alive simultaneously. Naaaaaahh. I like it in Canada.
I got up at 2:30 AM, as usual, to hitch-hike to work at my clinic. You have to be careful of the RCMP death patrols that enforce the dusk to dawn curfew to prevent looting by the desperate, hungry masses of Canadians, struggling to find the bare necessities of life in the face of the incompetence and brutality of the socialized, bureaucratized Canadian system of government. I have to live 50 miles outside of town of course, in the Bush, to avoid the property taxes of 50% of annual income applied to all homes in the city. That, on top of the 98% marginal tax rates applied to anyone making more than $10,000 year, and your descendants could be in debt to the government to the tenth generation -- or, sent to the Uranium mines.
A furtive driver I knew, barely managing twenty miles per hour in his refurbished Ford Model A, stopped for me.
"Can you help my daughter with an abortion, Doc? She was gang-raped by her Ontario Works social workers."
"Do you have a coat-hanger?"
"I'll have to break into the Wall-Mart in town, but I can bribe the security with forged ration cards. Computer training comes in handy!"
"Can do, buddy."
After only a few close calls from the RCMP helicopter gunships -- they're so drunk on Molson Canadian, they can hardly see, let alone shoot -- we arrived at the grey, windowless, bunker-like structure of the People's Clinic. I was overwhelmed by the smell of urine, vomit, excrement, blood and decomposing flesh, marking the hospital like a neon sign from blocks away. The screams became more audible as we approached.
The head nurse met me at the door.
"Twenty more dead babies in the children's ward, doctor. No apparent cause of death."
"Usual procedure. Junior Nurse on the Ward takes the hit. Public show trial, execution by a single bullet in the back of her head, sell her bodily organs on the black market for the benefit of the people's clinic. Her family pays for the bullet."
I checked the medicine cabinet. A few bottles of bayer aspirin. Some vitamins. A few sleeping tablets.
For the total pharmaceutical needs of a full-service hospital servicing 2,000 patients.
Those socialized drug companies were really stepping up to the plate!
I checked my schedule. Four open-heart surgeries, two brain transplants, eight amputations -- I kept forgetting which limb on those , but, no one's perfect -- all before noon. Then things would get a bit hectic.
Sometimes I dreamed of going to the United States. The Land of the Free. Free Market Medicine and Medical Research. But then the implant put in my brain by the Royal Canadian Ministry of Health and Disinformation was triggered, producing a level of pain roughly equivalent to having one's fingernails pulled out, being drawn and quartered and flayed alive simultaneously. Naaaaaahh. I like it in Canada.
posted by Jerry Kraus at 11:10 AM
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