In which I am reminded of nothing so much as my neighbours
Via la Shaidle, who attaches to this her usual saying – the “poor” today are the rich Jesus warned you about:
During my last night’s shift in the ER, I had the pleasure of evaluating a patient with a shiny new gold tooth, multiple elaborate tattoos, a very expensive brand of tennis shoes and a new cellular telephone equipped with her favorite R&B tune for a ring tone.
Glancing over the chart, one could not help noticing her payer status: Medicaid.
She smokes more than one costly pack of cigarettes every day and, somehow, still has money to buy beer. And our President expects me to pay for this woman’s health care?
Our nation’s health care crisis is not a shortage of quality hospitals, doctors or nurses. It is a crisis of culture—a culture in which it is perfectly acceptable to spend money on vices while refusing to take care of one’s self or, heaven forbid, purchase health insurance.
Granted, this is an American example, but bringing it across the border and considering a Canadian equivalent is entirely possible.
In fact, I live next door to it.
Imagine a collection of adults who live under the roof in a kind of rotating schedule; two women and one man seem to be the core group, but at least two other guys seem to swap on and out of the place. (One of them seems to have made it his mission in life to park in our spot every chance he gets.)
There’s at least a couple of kids in the mix, as well; they get dropped off and picked up by a taxi at irregular intervals.
They have two cars, both “K-cars” (one a hatchback). Neither car is healthy; the sedan squeals a sorry cry for a new belt and belches smoke rich with the scent of motor oil, while the hatchback seems to require multiple start attempts to get it going…and yet more such attempts in winter.
Now, repairing a car is not exactly a cheap proposition. This, I get. However, I figure at least one of those cars could be repaired to decent working order — if not replaced entirely (K-car, remember) — for less than the price of the massive flatscreen that dominates their front window, which they purchased upon moving in (I know: I heard one of the women boasting about it to the kids).
And if you add in what it must cost to smoke as much marijuana as they do…well, you get the idea, good reader.
And I’m paying for this all. And you are too, if you happen to be a Canadian taxpayer.
Okay, one of the women appears to have a job (maybe), and the transient guys may also be employed; I am certain that one is. But I am also certain that at least one person (maybe two) under that roof receives welfare payments.
Which, of course, come out of my taxes. One of the guys in the place is also quite “heavyset,” so in a few years those tax dollars are probably also going to go toward rectifying the ruin that McDonald’s has wrought upon his body.
But at least they have a nice television.
Update: Welcome, FFoF readers! Thanks for the Shaidleanche, Kathy!
