It’s random story time here at Curmudgeon Compound…
I rode my motorcycle to a medical appointment. Thank God for motorcycles! It was good to get some sun. I enjoyed the ride as much as I dreaded the visit.
Having ridden to what I will always think of as “the scene of the crime”, I strode through the door with the attitude I’ll have from 2020 until I die; acknowledging medical personnel did evil. Having witnessed it, I know they’d willingly do evil again.
Were they cackling supervillains bent on destruction? Nah, that would engender more respect from me. They did, as they’ll explain away to themselves as they try to sleep at night, mostly “minor” evil.
Weak people are always willing to do what weak people always do.
The word “trustworthy” excludes the weak.
Evil at the behest of a bureaucracy? Sure. Evil to keep their jobs? Sure. Evil because that’s how the incentives were stacked? Sure.
Doesn’t matter to me; it’s still fuckin’ evil. When they strapped grandpa into a ventilator even though it was an unwise choice they did it because money was tied to ventilator use. Initially, some of them may have believed that was the best treatment… which makes them merely wrong. But that only excuses those first few weeks. There’s no sin in being wrong. Sin comes from doing wrong after witnessing clear evidence that it’s harmful.
Depending on how carefully they observed victims of their treatments, doctors and nurses gradually fell on a spectrum from utterly incompetent to forcing lingering death on helpless people for a subsidy.
I wonder what the subsidy was? The best I can sort from muddled sources is an extra 20% on the top for any hospitalization with the word “covid”. That’s a full 20% extra on the already high base rate for a ventilator. 30 ounces of silver is worth a little under $700 in today’s dollars. How much did they get from grandpa’s death?
I reserve my harshest thoughts for people smart enough to know it was bad medicine yet willing to do it anyway. Might as well throw puppies into a wood chipper. To injure the innocent is unforgiveable. Sick people trusted them!
At a less esoteric level they withheld ivermectin and bitched that it was horse medicine. A safe, cheap, well tested treatment. Even if it didn’t work, who gives a shit? If an adult American citizen wants to try it, why the hell not? In a world of face tattoos and expensive car leases the thing “too risky” to allow a Citizen was a dose of malaria treatment? I call bullshit.
I walked in that door knowing medical people did what they were told… even if people suffered. They complied first and didn’t bother to treat illness except as an afterthought. TicTok morons have the attention span of a mouse. They’ve ret-conned their memory and “let it go”. I can’t.
Doctors and nurses took the first step on the path to cattle cars! Until I see Fauchi’s corpse in a gibbet I can’t be sure it won’t happen again.
Have you guessed my mood?
I strutted past seven (count ’em SEVEN!) long ignored placards about Covid. All I needed is what they call “annual checkup” and I call “the vig”.
A “vig” is the fee charged by a bookie for accepting a gambler’s wager. Personally, I’m wagering a healthy if grumpy asshole benefits from minor routine medicine in a manner that outweighs the risk they’ll fuck up and kill me. I bet otherwise most of the last three years.
If I hit the gym more often I’d probably stay away entirely. Like everyone at the doctor’s office I wished I was working out more. I bailed on the gym in 2020 and got complacent. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.
Now it was time to get “serviced” by a doctor. Doctors don’t have it easy. Their nuts are in a vice. They’re indentured servants owned by the medical complex. They’re trapped in a system of pimps in suits managing credentialed hoes in labcoats.
I fuckin’ hate ’em!
The woman at the front desk (for reasons only known to HR there has never ever been a man at the front desk) greeted my sweaty, armored motorcycle jacket wearing, grim self with an absolutely radiant smile. Actual humanity? Wow! You can’t fight kindness! I smiled back; which probably looked like a hyena getting ready for dental work but my heart was in the right place.
“Riding today?” She prompted.
My first thought was to be a wiseass. “I carry a helmet in case I need to pilot a jet”. With effort I reign myself in and let small talk ensue. “Yep, nice day out.”
“They say it’s going to rain.”
“Then I’ll get wet.”
She ignores me and continues beaming. “Labs are on the right.” Her giant smile is obviously well practiced. It borders on a superpower. She should give lessons!
Labs? WTF! I don’t like surprises in medical buildings! Regardless, it was about the only thing that wouldn’t piss me off too much. I’ve got plenty of blood to spare and I love properly administered diagnostic chemistry! I trust chemical detections (if not interpretations) more than I trust the monkeys administering “medicine”. (Don’t get me started on weirdly misused covid detection methods. That was damn near divination as far as I can tell.)
At the lab, a bubbly woman takes blood and tells me all about her plans to have a Harley-Davidson. There are motorcycle riders and people who like Harleys. Occasionally someone is both. If a person loves motorcycles and just happens to choose a Harley as one excellent choice among many good options that’s a rider. The opposite is someone who’d die of misery if handed the keys to a perfectly good Suzuki or Triumph. Many Harley owners “buy in” with a Harley as the price of admission to join a group. The group can tolerate only one brand.
She sees a helmet and probably knows nothing about motorcycles. Thus, she can only conclude I’m a “Harley person”. She’s super happy. If I mentioned that my “American made iron” is a Honda that was built in Ohio she might cry. For that matter it looks new but it’s 24 years old. I let it go. See how nice I am?
I’m not loyal to any company. I have a Yamaha and a Honda. (Admittedly the Honda is a flat out rip-off of protectionist era Harley-Davidson styling. But it’s laden with the sweet sweet engineering of Japanese perfectionists. Honda wisely kept all the good stuff carefully hidden but I appreciate it more every year.)
I’m shopping for another Honda. I don’t tell her that. She might not know Hondas exist.
I wonder if she has a Harley tattoo? Everyone that age has a tattoo of something. No way to ask without sounding creepier than I already look.
I wouldn’t buy a Harley unless it was half the going market price and came with a free Suzuki on the side. This is mostly due to preference but also I’m a cheapskate. I find myself wondering how a nurse (phlebotomist) can afford the most expensive brand this side of a Ducati?
Her story develops and I soon know. It involves someone who had a Harley. That guy kicked the bucket, the bike persisted, passing through a series of cousins or whatever until she nabbed it. She relays the story of how she drove it into a ditch and I get the idea she probably doesn’t have a motorcycle endorsement on her license. She says it’s all ok because her husband will be the main operator. Hmm… someone else paid for it, customer base roughly the age of dead, not a chance of an empowered female solo rider…
Holy stereotypes! She’s checked every box in the Harley playbook! She did it in less than 5 minutes. I’m impressed! The only groups more devout are Mormons and Packers Fans.
She does a great job with needles and such. I watch to make damn sure she’s extracting blood and not injecting anything. I wish her well. I really mean it. I sincerely hope she winds up having a great time wearing rebellious black t-shirts like all the other people wearing black t-shirts; ideally at Sturgis. It must be cool to have a “tribe”. She has joined something. I cannot.
“Looks like it might rain.” She says as I move on.
“Yeah, I’m gonna’ get wet.” I chuckle.
Now for the Doctor… stay tuned.