Our health insurance dropped us a couple of years ago, because they were no longer offering coverage for self-employed people. We only used them on a couple of occasions for checkups.
It could be they saw my cholesterol levels as a bad bet, or they were just trying to add to the furor over the Affordable Health Care Act.

The dicks walked off scot free with a bunch of money in any case, and soured me on Menshevik acommodationism for good.

I’m more or less up for some revolution now, especially if it involves a feces-spattered Roger Ailes rotisseried atop a mountain of Regnery press imprints.

(I’ll be the hysterical fucker in the hat with the tricolor cockade, poking the auto da fe up with a halberd, yelling Ya! Ya! Woo! and making seasoned professional killers wince. {Do not miss this}.)

We looked into a few insurance companies listed on healthcare.gov, decided on one and arranged for checkups at a doc-in-a-box.
For about a year now, I’ve been weaning myself off drink by taking my wine with copious amounts of water. I finally got to the point where I could actually feel the process of intoxication unfold in slo-mo and monitor the oafishness in real time as it set in, along with the first glimmers of the desire to position myself in front of the computer half the night and surf Youtube for boss sounds.

“I’d risk a hangover for this? God damn, I’m a boring son of a bitch.” I thought.

I’ve also been trying to lower my cholesterol with some cheaper, less hepatoxic methods than the nasty-ass statins favored by the pharmaco test-ape complex, and these (niacin, red yeast rice) preclude the use of recreational alcohol. So goodbye Norma Jean, until around Christmas or New Year’s.

I’m hoping my lipids profile will be a little better than a competition wing eater’s this time, but who knows? I’m at the age when most of my family members begin the wheezing overweight amputee’s march to a red hole in the piedmont earth, haunting all the pastry laden funeral dinner tables of the brethren at each step along the way and taking enough protein and fat with them to fuel a flock of buzzards jet-streaming from Raleigh to Mindinao. But this is just the predominant statistical sample. Some outliers push it next to a century burning the rareified octanes of blissful orgiastic hatred alone, and I have ample reason to believe I am of their kind.

With a little tweaking of my diet, I may join them in standing at the edge of the grave for what seems like decades, cursing and punching the folks earnestly trying to get me up in my best clothes and plaster the last strands of hair back down on my head. That’s the plan anyway.

So I was mighty distressed to discover the staff of the urgent care center who conducted the checkup found me borderline hypertensive, fat, and short.

They did me the huge favor of giving me three blood pressure readings, and selected the one they took after I lay down for a few minutes and thought about plainsong in an empty water tower. While not enough to restore my faith in medicine, it reminded me that at heart, humans are cooperative feeders, and we’re at our best when we’re trying to snake the motherfucking insurers.