Like all activists who have an unquestioning acceptance of the diversity of things they have to believe in in order to get a high paying state job, I strongly support universal health care. Anyone who questions universal health care is a racist.
Doctor Drake Mallard is a poster person for universal health care in Ontario. Despite a troubled childhood, oppression at the hands of white racists, and lack of opportunities, he has managed to become a clinic director for dislocated shoulders. He works a grueling twenty-one hour week, with little spare time for his community. He manages to supervise the Michael Vick animal shelter, in addition to caring for his seven children and five wives. And it was his stamped signature that sent me to see another doctor. It only took two weeks for Dr.Mallard to sign the referal.
Doctor Jekyl is a poster person for universal health care in Ontario. Despite a troubled childhood, oppression at the hands of white racists, and lack of opportunities, he has managed to become a clinic associate director for dislocated shoulders. He is a tall man, with the red hair and green eyes one associates with the Vikings who settled into vegetarian communes in the Shetlands and Orkneys during the open borders period of the ‘Dark’ Ages. He has great bedside manner. He accepted my addiction to tobacco products … by offering me one of the Camel filters that he smokes at his office, along with a shot of whiskey, which is how the people of the Orkneys greet friends.
Now, Doctor Jekyl told me that I needed some tests to determine the extent of nerve damage in my dislocated shoulder * . Complications! The worse being that, because of waiting times, the test would not be done in time, so it was all rather pointless. All those Convenience-Canadians, those citizens who seek our citizenship for benefits, have clogged up the system, apparently. Another complication is the incompetent crew of technicians they have running the test equipment. They lose the paperwork, either that or get it mixed up. They do not really speak english, apparently; at least when they show up somewhat sober. All in all, said Doctor Jekyl, tests are too late, bungled by dolts, and expensive enough to keep taxpayers of the working class (that is, people who work ) too poor to travel to somewhere else to find out what real health care is like. If only more Canadians were illegal immigrants, who can afford vacations back in the Fatherland, sighed Dr.Jekyl, and then he added that … consulting Tarot Cards is, statistically, more effective than Universal Health Care.
According to the Tarot (using the offically approved OHIP deck, featuring the features of prominent Canadian Bolsheviks for the major arcana [as in Pierre Trudeau for Key XV]), Doctor Jekyl assured me that me numb right arm was on vacation in the Underworld, hanging out at a Bed and Breakfast run by Hades * and Persephone * . My right arm was, by definition, acquiring supernatural powers, a mind of its own * , and a whole bunch of new friends.
Having had, perhaps, one sipp’n shot of Clan MacBerserker too many, I did not much care. It was nice to know that my arm was on vacation. Perhaps, I said as I finished another Camel filter, could I join my arm rather than it join me up here?
Capital Idea, agreed the good doctor. Hypnosis, he suggested, would send me to rejoin my absent arm. He would bill OHIP for bunions, to make it worth his while. He put me into a deep trance (perhaps a 5 on the Arons scale), and this is what I recollected when I awoke:
My arm, my paralyzed right arm, was alive and well. I was standing at a conveyor belt. The light was dim, like an industrial factory that was poorly maintained by non-union electricians. There was a bad smell, like you get down wind of Toronto. My right arm appeared to be supervising the conveyor belt: it was Hell’s Library’s Book Return Chute.
The books were coming down the chute in singles and in bunches. Some fell on the floor. When that happened, my right arm would pummel or whip or clout the minion closest to the dropped books, magazines, periodicals or DVD’s. The damage to the books was not an issue; it was just an excuse to pummel, whip, or clout. The minions had black leather hoods sewn onto their heads, and little ribbons safety pinned to their skin for each time they had hung up on a telemarketer.
Telemarketers are everywhere in Hell. They run the place. If you do not like Telemarketers, you will not like Hell. Because, in hell, Telemarketers do not like you, either. My right arm used to supervise call centers, so it felt at home in Hell, and managed to get a job in Hell’s Library. And as an entry level supervisor, you start in the basement, where the Book Return Chute is.
As supervisor, I had no real work except to be cruel and vicious to my staff. The books being returned were pretty interesting. The Necronomicon seemed a favourite, be it the hardcover, soft cover, comic book, or pop-up cut-outs edition. There was Greenpeace literature, touting Global Warming during the last two coldest years on record, and Greenbooger literature from the past, back in 1971 when the harp seal was going to go extinct. And some United Church circulars, featuring fund raising pitches for abortion clinics, ballet shoes for Africa, and art exhibits of artists who mocked Christ, sophists who slandered the works of the Saints, and greedy publicans who built empires upon the taxes of the Simple. But most interesting of all was the recent edition of Child Murder Monthly Magazine, a main stream media production.
The periodical had been badly treated at the hands of an irresponsible library patron. The pages were curly. A coffee stain, no, pomegranate juice, blotted on page three, where the table of contents and publishing information was listed. Other pages were stuck together with what appeared to be Cracker Jack crumbs. And, the cross word on page 27 had been partially done, in ink. In ink.
My Right Arm was outraged. I selected forms to be filled from a file folder in which was kept the forms to be filled to inform mangement, other departments, and the Supreme Central Librarian, Above, of the situation, and the Action Plan we would be seeking funding for. With sociopathic bliss, my right arm in the underworld, checked off check boxes, wrote one phrase answers, and composed sentences. If you who read this in the world above the underworld (which down here we call Midgard); you Midgarders would be angered at a library patron who wrote in a circulating periodical. A fine would be collected, on your world of Midgard. So too, here in the Library of Hell. There would be Hell to pay.
While my right arm was dispatching powerful infernal powers using alchemy, spells, and talismans, I did not pay attention, and instead day dreamed about Child Monthly Murder Magazine. Who would read such a thing? Even worse, who would write and publish it? This main stream media publishing empire, was it responsible for the evil, twisted, perverted, unholy desires of the blasphemers who sought it out every week before the full moon here in Hell? Maybe they had good jobs (no mean feat in Hell, where if you have a job with a phone on your desk, you have to be polite to the telemarketers that call you all the time) and just thought that the Canadian Government would deal with any real problems, and just lived for their pay cheque. What did the Photo Editor and his staff photographers think about the implications of their work? There was a running pool on the number of little girls raped and murdered in misogynist cultures that was done on glossy paper, expensive glossy paper. Whose mind and hands had crafted that? Did not their sense of right and wrong tell them that they were encouraging evil, and undermining good? The use of free speech rights, a good thing, had been twisted by the mercenaries of the main stream media into a job, a career, an advocation, and for a few, seats in the Ivory Tower.
The regular crossword in Child Murder Monthly Magazine was interesting, attractive, and made me feel sick. You know, like when you go into one of those anonymous coffee shops in Non-White Toronto, and you realize on the last bite of your Bavarian Creme that it was not made in Canada, but a Non-Canadian fake food product, and that you are about to get very sick, very fast. You take that last look at your favourite shirt, just knowing that the caustic vomit you are about to expell will eat holes in it. Please God, do not let me throw up through my nose sort of sick.
My day dreaming came to an end when my Right Arm grew tired of filling out forms about the vandalization of Child Murder Monthly Magazine. Each escalating atrocity required another form. So far there was a white one, a pink one, and a yellow one already completed. But my Right Arm had tired and was balking at transfering all over, again, the same information onto the Magnesium Weapons Authorization Form, which was goldenrod in color. So my study of the magazine was ended. And shortly thereafter, my astral body returned to Midgard, to the office of Doctor Jekyl, who had switched to smoking hashish, as it was close to lunch.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this with my Sinister Left Arm, because my willful Right Arm is off on vacation in the Underworld.