Billionaires Against Healthcare Reform

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[The most frustrating part about being stuck in prison till October for ONE-THIRD the blood alcohol level that Republican councilman Andy Quach had when he knocked out the power to half of Westminster in July is being unable to do anything to counter the Teabaggers and Astroturfers at these contentious healthcare townhalls I keep reading about.  In my frustration I’ve created a fictional article describing one of the projects I want to organize — and still will in October, if it’s relevant.]

Satirical “Billionaires” Shake Things Up At Healthcare Townhall

(Megan Vargas, 8/17/2009)

[Santa Ana]  They stood out in the crowd – both from the curious citizens and from the irate anti-reform protesters at Congresswoman Loretta Sanchez’ healthcare townhall meeting Thursday – two well-dressed men and an elegant woman passing out glossy brochures underneath a striking banner featuring the logo of a slashed-out stethoscope, and reading “Billionaires Against Healthcare Reform.”  I wandered over to one of the men, who was wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, and laughed, “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack!” he replied, handing me a card.  “George Nauhtgon, CEO, HealthShaft USA.  And this is Susan Kopicki, our Vice President for Marketing and Rescission.”  Okay, obviously this was satire, but I decided to play along.

“I’ll bite – what problem do you ‘billionaires’ have with the health bills going through Congress right now?”

“Where to start,” sighed Naughton.  “Okay, we’re obviously insurance executives, so I’m sure you hate us already.  We are bar none the most ruthlessly vilified industry in America.  There has never been a high-tech corporate lynching comparable to what we deal with on a daily basis.  And how unjust is that – we are in the business of doling out permission for medical care to our millions of customers, and we truly do the best we can.  All things considered, we have an admirable record of keeping most of our policyholders alive and healthy, given our need to turn a profit.”

“Not only that,” continued Kopicki, “we employ hundreds of thousands of highly specialized bureaucrats all across the nation.  We are what’s called ‘Too Big To Fail.’  And yet Congressional Progressives are hell-bent on destroying us, with their so-called ‘Public Option.’”

“It’s unfair competition, Miss Vargas,” Naughton pouted.  “I’m telling you, it will kill us.”

“I thought competition was a good thing?” I offered cautiously.

“Not if you’re competing against a government-run plan, it isn’t!” he shot back.  “Did you know Medicare only spends 3% of its budget on administrative overhead – that’s just one-tenth of what we’re forced to spend.   Just think:  The government doesn’t need to spend billions upon billions on advertising and marketing.  It doesn’t need an army of bureaucrats to tell people what treatments they do or don’t qualify for, or haggle over payments with doctors and hospitals.  It doesn’t have to shell out huge campaign contributions and hire high-priced lobbyists to make its voice heard in Congress.  AND it doesn’t need to make payments to shareholders, or keep us executives living in the lifestyles we’ve become accustomed to.”  (Here, he absently stroked his Rolex.)  “Why, with all that savings, the government could insure every American from cradle to grave and still save money.   How on earth do we compete with that?  It would be the Death of a Thousand Cuts.”

“I’m afraid you’re not making our case too well, George,” muttered Kopicki.

“Fine, Susan!” snapped Naughton, “YOU try it then.”

“Okay.  The first thing you need to know, young lady, and get this down in your little story there, is that WE ARE NICE PEOPLE.  We feel NO joy, NONE WHATSOEVER, when our customers die or go bankrupt due to denial of care.”  They both shook their heads sadly, in unison.  “But our primary responsibility is to our shareholders.  It has to be, that’s the American way!”

“And don’t forget,” added Naughton, “70% of our money goes toward Medical Losses.”

“Medical Losses,” I interrupted, “That’s your term for actually covering medical care for your policyholders, right?”

“Exactly!  Basically, charity.  70% – what other company would do that?  Which leaves only 30% for all the important things I named off earlier.”

“Thirty percent seems like kind of a lot for administrative overhead,” I ventured cautiously.

Naughton blinked at me dumbfounded for a moment, then sputtered, “I said, THIRTY percent – that’s less than half!  And if this … this Community Organizer in the White House has his way, it’ll be even less!  And that would come directly out of our profits, and our executive compensations.”

“Yeah, weren’t you down to only eight digits last year, George?” needled Kopicki.

“Damn it, Susan, will you stop embarrassing me?” snapped Naughton, elbowing her sharply in the ribs.

“Also, don’t forget about all those pretty ads for prescription drugs,” shouted the other gentleman, who had been busy handing out brochures and chatting up the protesters.  “They’ll be wanting to get rid of those too.  Wouldn’t you miss all those nice old folks running through fields of flowers?”

He ambled over and introduced himself.  “Vern Nelson, Placebo Laboratories.”

I caught a glimpse of his brochure:  It featured the familiar image of Barack Obama in Somali garb, juxtaposed with a grotesque photograph of a partial-birth abortion, underneath the catchy title “What You Don’t Know About ObamaScare Will Kill Your Mother, Slowly.”

At that moment Congresswoman Sanchez emerged on the stage, and Nelson went back to lead the protesters in a “Just say no” chant.  “Democrat Death Panels?” he bellowed into the megaphone, and the mob roared back, “Just say no!”  “Free care for wetbacks?”

“Just say no!” “Taxpayer abortions?” “Just say no!”  “Pull the plug on Grandma?” “Just say no!”

Sanchez’ aide pleaded fruitlessly for quiet, some spectators tried to shout down the protesters, scuffles erupted, pandemonium ensued.  Nelson sauntered back laughing triumphantly:  “How do you like our stormtroopers?  I think they actually believe this stuff!”

Naughton hissed, “Do you mind, Vern?  This lady is a journalist.  They are ‘concerned citizens exercising their first-amendment rights to voice their heartfelt concerns.’”

Undaunted, Nelson chortled, “Some of these idiots are doing this for free!”

Kopicki cracked, “Now that’s what I call ‘bending the cost curve!’” and she and Nelson high-fived and howled with laughter.

“This part is off-the-record, right?” Naughton murmured to me, and when I hesitated he shrugged, “Ah, these people won’t read your paper anyway.”

A little put out, I prepared to move on.  “Anything final you’d all like to add?”

“Yeah!” chirped Kopicki, “This never gets pointed out enough:  There is NOTHING in the Constitution about a right to health care.”

“She’s right, you know,” nodded Naughton.  “And there IS something in there about the duty to make as much money as you want.”

“Yep, that’s … in there,” agreed Kopicki.

“And one other thing, Miss Vargas:  There’s only one thing more un-American than the Public Option.”

“And that is?” I asked.

He leaned forward and stage-whispered, “SINGLE PAYER!”  The other two reacted as though hit in the face with a bucket of dirty water.  “No you didn’t!” squawked Kopicki, as Nelson furiously crossed himself and pulled out a bar of soap, with which they began to wash a struggling Naughton’s mouth.  I took the opportunity to make my getaway from this Mad Tea Party.

But I was immediately accosted by one of the protesters, a gaunt, grizzled man in a “NOBAMA” tee-shirt carrying a “This Is Not Sweden!” sign.  “Those people you were just talking to?” he confided.  “They’re communists.  I saw them last year protesting against the war in Iraq.  Just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for the heads up, sir,” I smiled.  At that moment, Nelson tapped the protester on the shoulder and handed him an envelope.

“Great work today, pal.  Here’s for the bus home, there should be enough extra in there for a round of drinks for everybody.  Seal Beach next week, right?”

The protester looked hopelessly confused, glanced at me, glanced in the envelope, and pulled out what looked like a modest wad of one-dollar bills.  Then he glanced around furtively once more, stuffed the cash in his pocket, and slunk away into the crowd.