Obama Care: It's not just about the price, it's about the quality

46% of family practitioners may retire if Obama care passes

It was mid-summer in the year 2015. Inside the government-owned Michael Moore Obesity Clinic, a large woman with short black hair and thick spectacles sat behind a counter under a slowly-circulating ceiling fan, alternating between two-fingered tapping at her computer and slapping at flies with a rolled-up magazine (last December’s edition of Virginia Foreclosure Bargains). She suddenly bawled out, in a voice suggestive of someone sounding “Recall” on a dented flugelhorn with a clogged spit-valve, “Number 76! Number 76! Now serving number 76!”

In a spindly chair, a fat man slumped in fretful slumber, having been kept waiting for over two hours beyond his scheduled appointment, which it took him three months to get in the first place.

“Z-z-z-z….”

“Number 76!”

“Z-z-*znunck*…*cough!*…Wha…what? 76? That’s me!”

He gingerly lifted himself from the rickety chair and made his way back to the examination area. He was met by a voluptuous young woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, her cap teetering tenuously on top of a mass of platinum hair (she had inadvertently donned the name-tag from her weekend job, which read “Welcome to IHOP - Velma”).

Between small explosions of bubble gum, she said, “You Mr. Jackson?”

The fat man nodded.

“Well, come this way, Porky.”

Mr. Jackson lumbered along behind Velma – not an entirely unpleasant experience for the patient, whose eyesight had been in no way impaired by his excessive weight or by his 55 years – and was escorted into a small examination room.

“Somebody’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Er, wait a moment. Should I remove my outer clothes?”

The nurse eyed him head to toe, and gave him an ironic smile. “Not on my account.” She then toddled off.

Mr. Jackson eased himself onto the examination table, noting, with some surprise, that it was covered with a cotton sheet bearing the curious word “HoJo’s” replicated numerous times on its surface . He picked idly at what appeared to be an old cigarette burn. The air conditioning in the building wasn’t working, and the warm air made Mr. Jackson drowsy. The next thing he knew, he was being shaken by someone standing next to him.

“Hey, wake up, buddy! I have other patients I gotta see!”

Mr. Jackson sat up with a start, and glanced at his watch; another hour had gone by. He glanced uncertainly at the “physician”.

The man was probably around 40 years old, above the middle height, and had eyes like black olives that peered at Mr. Jackson over a bushy black mustache. He was wearing steel-toed tan work-boots, dusty, dark-blue slacks and a short-sleeved light-blue shirt, over the pocket of which was a rectangular white patch with the name “Ed” stitched on it in bright red thread. The whole was topped with a baseball-style cap, the “Red Man Chewing Tobacco” logo emblazoned on the front.

“Ok, pal, what’s your problem?”

Mr. Jackson cleared his throat. “As you can see, I’m a little overweight.”

“A little?” Ed laughed. “Mister, you must tip the scales at, what, 275, 300?”

Mr. Jackson frowned. “Yes, 285 when I checked this morning. I’ve been dieting and exercising for the last six months, but I’ve only lost five pounds.”

“Well, if you’re only worried about the missing five pounds, turn around and I’ll show you where they went.”

“Listen, I came here for help, not to be insulted!”

“Ok, ok. Easy, big fella! That’s just what you call 'bedside manner'; you know, maintainin’ a nice, friendly atmosphere, with humor an’ all. Now, have you tried cuttin’ down on your intake?”

“I certainly have. I’ve almost eliminated red meat from my diet.”

Ed smiled knowingly. “Yeah, but if you’re eatin’ mostly vegetables, you must be puttin’ away a truck-load of produce a day to be carryin’ that kinda belly around. You ever think about padlockin’ the fridge? Or, even better, installin’ a time lock?”

Fully incensed at this point, Mr. Jackson began speaking heatedly. “I’m not eating as much as my wife does, and she only weighs 120 pounds! I think this is some sort of problem with my metabolism or with my glands. Can’t you figure it out? After all, you are a doctor.”

“I am?”

Mr. Jackson gawped. “You’re not?”

“Hell, no! I’m an HVAC repairman. The A/C in this place has been out for a couple of weeks and I’ve got a crew here trying to fix it. But since so many doctors have retired, I get a special deal under the health care law so I can earn a few extra bucks in return for practicin’ medicine. I mean, somebody’s gotta do it. And when you get right down to the thing, there ain’t much difference between ductwork and intestines. But I think maybe you need a specialist in internal medicine. I can highly recommend the clinic right there across the street.”

Mr. Jackson looked out the window through the dirty blinds. “But…but…that place is a truck stop!”

Ed winked and slipped a business card into Mr. Jackson’s hand. “Ask for Joe Bob. No waiting.”