6 Comments I Report, You Decide

  1. Mike


    As a Canadian looking at this, doesen’t anyone else find this picture at the airport kinda …….I dunno….INSANE???? Jeez-Louise! Like, things have gone completely SOUTH there! My wife’s an American who emmigrated up here, and she’ll be the first to tell you: GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN! THE LUNATICS ARE GETTING READY TO LOCK THE ASYLUM DOORS!!


  2. Mike


    So, like, other major news corporations have “novelty” shops at other airports…..and you think this is all….what?….normal?



  3. Mike

    Awright, I’m on the graveyard shift here and I’m really trying to stay awake, so I’ll toss in a few general comments. Izzat ok? I hope so.

    1. I’ve now looked over pretty most of this site, and I have to admit I like it. I think T’s a pretty gifted scribe, and I seem to agree with the viewpoints which I’ve read her express so far. I haven’t seen her “stand-up routine”, but hell, I’m sure she’s on-the-ball when she hits that stage. Most of the genuinely creative folks usually are.

    2. Can I share a story? IT’S ALL TRUE!!! I SWEAR TA GAWD!! No. Really. It is. All true. Listen to this: my wife (the transplanted American, remember?) had to rush me to the hospital earlier this week, with a fever of 103 degrees. It was hell on earth. WE get to the emergency dept. at 3 goddamn a.m., and I’m a total write-off. To make a long story short (MERCIFULLY short), it turns out I had an infected abcess downstairs…..at the backdoor. The fever was my immune system trying to fight it. The doctor at the time says, “Pal, you’re in some deep doo-doo. I can’t do anything for you, except dope you up for the pain, and you’ll have to stay put until the surgeon comes in at 8 a.m., so you can see him.”

    “Ummm…ahhh…s-s-s-s-surgeon?”, I stammer.

    “Yes”, she says. “In the meantime, here’s 100 milligrams of Demerol into your bloodstream. Bombs awayyyy!!!”

    Poof. I was out. Just like that.

    The surgeon comes in. He says this abcess-thingy is too deep. He’ll have to knock me out with a general anesthetic, and clean it out. Later on in the day, he does it. I wake up afterwards. I groggily ask the nearest nurse “Did they find me?” She looks at me, and says “Did who find you?” “Never mind”, I say. “You’re prolly one of THEM.” I fall back into oblivion. Later in the day, they send me home with a punch of painkillers, and arrangements for a home-care nurse to come to my house once-a-day EVERYDAY to change my dressings. With my luck, it’ll be a male nurse named “Juan”, who has big hands. Swell. The next day, when the nurse came by to do her thing (she was a nice young lady–thank christ), she pulled all the dressings outta there with a sickening “RRRRRIIIIIPPPP!!!!!” My scream made the plaster fall from the ceiling. She got them all changed, nice and neat. Later, my 11-year old son, Elliot, saw in the wastebasket what she pulled out of me. Know what he said those long dressings looked like? Those dressings that were wedged into this open-wound in my ass? He said: “Wow, Dad! That looks like a long strip of bacon with blood on it!! EEEWWW!!!” Whilst gasping, I tried reaching for him, my hands hooked into the shape of claws. “KIDDING! NO! WAIT!! I’M KIDDING DAD!! JUST KIDDING!!” He runs off. I hear him all the way up the stairs—“EEEWWW!!!”. I take more painkillers. I pass out. My wife (the American, remember?) keeps telling me keep my ass in bed, and to “STAY PUT AND ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?? DO YOU HEAR ME??”

    “YAH-YAH-YAH!!!”, I says. “I HEAR YOU!! OK?? A deaf man can hear you.”

    “WHAT??”, she screams at me. “WHAT?? WHAT DID YOU SAY??”

    “Nuthin'”, I says. “Fuggedaboudit.”


    Here I am, a week later. I shift in my chair, ’cause it stings somewhat if I sit still too long. My wife (the American, remember?), still marvels at how after all of that, from the initial consult in the emergency room, and up to and including the daily visit of a home-care R.N.—–we have never seen a single bill. Not one.

    Universal health care.

    Socialized medicine.

    It’s the only way to fly.

    Or, in my case, writhe.


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