We’re finally removing my mother-in-law from Kaiser Permanente’s horrific health insurance. She has frontal temporal dementia, is nearly catatonic, and is slowly dying in hospice. The hospice is new, but the dementia has been devouring her for seven years. So has Kaiser.
I wish that I could hire a 600 foot giant, an antiquated colossus, three krakens high, a horny one with a fetish for architecture. I’d hire him to climb the corporate headquarters of Kaiser Permanente and hump and grind the smug beuqacratic managed care right out of that place. There he’d go, stabbing holes into the metal trusses, pleasuring himself in an orgiastic game of reverse Pop Goes the Weasel. The executives, running from tumbling ejaculate that chases them from office to elevator, scream in disbelief. At which point the giant bellows out a phone number for them to address their complaints. Calling the number would go to dead line, of course. This seems harsh, I suppose, but seeing an 80 foot dong unload itself over the marbled halls of its executive suites is the only way they’d ever know what it feels like to be one of their patients.