The constipated Marxist

Sure, I talk to my neighbors. In Toronto, there are very few who actually talk to their neighbors. But I am a social person. People interest me. I do not get into the City of Light as much as I used to as I have obligations out of town, but every now and then I make it to my house in the East end. This last time I was in town, I managed to have a conversation with the fellow who lives three doors down. He works for The State. Those John Deere cap wearing Tea Party types would call him a Statist.

I invited the Statist down to the basement. He wanted to borrow something, some string for his whipper-snipper. He was full of questions about transplanting trees, gardening, and just full of how wonderful life was now that Obama was elected to his second term. The things people tell me in the basement of Fenris Badwulf.

But life was not completely perfect for the Statist in the basement. He was standing by the big freezers admiring them. He has a big basement too, but he does not have a freezer. His money goes to other things, like vacations to Cuba, and frequent repairs to his foreign car, and private school for his children. You can save money when you buy in bulk and freeze stuff, he told me. Of course I agreed. I do agree. Which of course brought us around to food.

I should have known. The Statist had a pinched look. That certain pallor to his complexion. He was squinting. Diagnosis: Constipation. The poor man. He was talking about his mother’s homemade muffins. It was a cry for help. I suggested a cup of coffee and some of the muffins my perfect girlfriend had made only recently. I did not tell him what all exactly was in them. No need to complicate my doing the right thing.

The Statist was a great champion of the Ontario Health care system. And here he was, suffering. I used to argue with people about the failings of single tier health care, but I gave up. So much easier to just provide the services that the state gets paid for, but fails to provide. Like the bran prune muffins I fed to the Statist.

His mania passed, and a depression set in. It was the bran moving through this plugged guts. The prunes were a marching band, putting some spring in the step of his intestines. A potent therapeutic weapon: like grape shot against a slave uprising. Sure, The Statist was euphoric about the next four years of spending initiatives, but there was an underlying depression: how was Obama going to pay for all that free health care, free food, and free legal services? I nodded. His guts gurgled, now unencrusted, they could squirm freely. Free guts meant the underlying problems could bloat and float to the surface like a snack for an alligator.

I used talk therapy. Obama should just raise taxes. People should pay their fair share. Of course The Statist agreed. Just borrow the money: it is an investment in the future, it is for the children. The Statist agreed, but there was a flicker of foreboding, of doom, in his eyes. I looked at him, the depression was in his face, just up above his eyes, rooted in his prefrontal lobes. It was like a back ache: a place that you cannot reach with your own hands. But there the place that needs a rub is inside the head. Some electron massage is called for. The state health care does not provide such services, even if we pay for them, and suffer (and pay the consequences) when they fail to provide. But I, Fenris Badwulf, I care.

You can research the subject yourself *. The equipment is available *. Like bran prune muffins, you sometimes just have to help people twice. One when you pay the state to do it; and the second time to actually do it when the state fails. But it is OK. I care.

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