I was having lunch with the Misanthrope when the news of the Greek referendum came in. One of my loyal readers had texted me, gloating, his expectation of some cunning on the part of the cunning Greeks vindicated. I shared the news with the Misanthrope. We were eating in a black market establishment here in London Ontario. This place does not collect taxes, nor does it pay them. The foodstuffs come direct from the farm, untouched by incompetent government inspectors. But that is a story for another post. Instead, I wish to share with you the opinions of the Misanthrope.
We were talking about health concerns when the text arrived. The Misanthrope just shrugged about that. Sounds like something out of the Peloponnesian War, he said. The Greeks are just being Greeks. They do not want this austerity stuff, and now they have the money, some leverage. It is the Eurocrats that are scared. The Eurocrats will throw money at the problem, and the Greeks know it. He shrugged and turned back to his meal. The Misanthrope had no exposure to the Greek crisis. His distaste for primates extends to the ruling class, as well as the more noxious sub-species of tax spenders. I asked him how his parents were doing. One had been ill lately.
The Misanthrope did not answer my question, my polite inquiry. He took a bite of his fresh baked roll buttered with real butter from the farm and looked out over the traffic on the street. He shook his head 'no', then he shook his head 'yes'. It is no secret that there is a health care crisis. The baby boomers are marching into retirement. They will have increased need of health care resources: nursing homes, clinics, scanners; nurses, doctors, technicians, people to push them around from clinic to clinic. This is known, is it not? Is it a secret? He chewed, I chewed. I wondered, is there any doubt that there is a future increased need of health care resources? I think not. I nodded in agreement.
The Misanthrope pointed his fork towards Ottawa. So, today is Tuesday. What is the only solution to these legions of sickly retired people marching into the universal health care system? Clinics and old ages homes must be built. Are they being built? Where are the training colleges turning out the nurses, technicians? The solution to the problem is clear, and it is not being done. And nobody is talking about the obvious. Those happy sixty year old civil servants will soon be sickly sixty five year olds. Where is their old age home? Is there a collective amnesia in the collectivist elites? Nothing is being done, or, if you are a socialist fork tongue, no where enough is being done. He shrugged. He put gravy on his fries.
So what, I replied. The crisis will be slow in building. The Me generation will use their shrill appeal to guilt and voting power to get resources spent on the health care they expect as the center of the universe. As they retire, their shrill demands will change from cute leftist voter immigration to nurses, technicians, and trans-gender diapers.
The Misanthrope nodded yes, then he nodded no. You know the reality in our existing health care system. You have employment equity incompetents infesting the system. You have been in hospitals where they have initiatives to encourage staff to wash their hands. What is that? You have doctors and nurses who do not wash their hands?! How will your the germy, shit dipped hands of your doctors and nurses impact on the sickly Me generation shuffling into this system? Put the two scandals together: the old croaks and the dirty paws of the primates. Hmmm? The Misanthrope shrugged and sipped his coffee. He cast his eyes on the desert menu.
He continued: The solution to the Me generation is that they are going to die like flies. Dead narcissists do not collect pensions. They will die single and separated as they wait in waiting rooms, as they choke on their own bile from C.Difficle, as they wait for hip replacements, as they are incapable of communicating in non-English with their specialist who does not wash his hands after squeezing out a poo. Take the army of Me marching into diapers, give them the support of employment equity mercenaries of incompetence, and what do you have? The scandals about pharmacists selling inert medications, silent and unobserved in the media. The scandals, unreported by the ability challenged media. Many problems out there. The Me generation marches into darkness, they slide towards the grave on a slide greased with white guilt of their own manufacture.
The Misanthrope held up his hand. Sure, there are elites that have superior access to health care. Those government heavies in Ottawa with that private access hospital. The gilded progressives who can fly out of state to get care. Sure, the wonderful progressive royalty will have better health care than the working class. Those who care about their parents and ride shotgun over the knuckle walkers hired to make the staff reflect diversity. Sure, they will not suffer from the statistical curve. Sure, the bottom feeders will be fed into the ground first, and fastest. The welfare classes are the least to be mourned. Tell me it is not so.
What could I say? In a country without free speech, I can only agree that life is wonderful. Our conversation turned to other things. Eating at a black market eatery is wonderful. It is cheap, the food better, the staff competent and they share my cultural beliefs about the germ theory of disease. None of the money on the table was going to fund services that are not provided. And, if you are of an ability challenged frame of mind, you can poke holes in the arguments and sentiments of the Misanthrope: a simple spelling mistake, a misplaced comma, a vague noun-verb agreement is sufficient to make something you do not like become untrue in the rainbow land of fairy dust. Tell me that is not so. Nothing the Misanthrope said could be said to be true; and the implications as non-fact collides with unreported scandals is but debit and credit meeting to make taxable income in the socialist paradise you better admire and not grumble about, you racist, rapist, Christian taxpayer scum.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.