IN ONE OF THE BUILDINGS where I work there is an elevator. The building has two floors. For some reason the control panel on the inside of the elevator has a button that says “1” and a button that says “2”. It really bothers me. It is a choice that promises options, but there is only one way you can go, up or down, depending on what floor you are on. Why not just have one button that says, “Go”!
I feel suddenly old. This feeling (reality) was brought on by an event that has made age more apparent to me than any passing birthday ever has. I signed up for Medicare.
I didn’t want to do it. I plan to work for several more years and have health coverage at work, but Big Brother sent me an ominous warning that if I didn’t sign up NOW, I “c(w)ould” be penalized with higher premiums for the rest of my days here on earth.
There was a questionnaire. Best I can remember the questions went something like this. I’m paraphrasing because I don’t actually remember the questions. I was under a dark and ominous cloud as I was reading it. The answers seemed to be like the buttons on our elevator—promising options but really only having one choice.
___YES: You freely admit to your government that you are elderly?
___YES: You understand that you have no choice but to nuzzle up to the teet of Uncle Sam’s big ol’ sow (mother pig)?
___YES: Aren’t you glad now you paid all those taxes?
___YES: You do realize and acknowledge that the actual dollars you and your employers have coughed up over the years are actually vapor, your government may or may not have saved your money on your behalf?
___YES: You understand that the Republicans could kill the fatted sow (mother pig) with the next election if the Democrats don’t drain her dry first.
Maybe I’m sounding a little bitter and cynical. Get over it. I’m old. It’s my right. Satire is fun, isn’t it? Or is it (satire)?