Political Humor

End of Life Counselors – Something wicked this way comes.

G Man: “Good evening. Are you Mr. Les James?”

Les: “That’s not my real name, but yes, do write under that nom de plume. Pardon my French. Why?”

G Man: “Great. My name is Rolands. I’m from the Government. I’m here to help.”

Les: “No, that’s way too easy. Let’s see. Ah, here’s a pithy comeback. I thought you were the UPS guy delivering a package, what with the Brown Shirt and all.”

G Man: “Yes, sir. Humor. Now, Mr. James, currently residing at the East Lake Garden Retirement Community, at15367 Hummingbird Place, St. Lewis, Missouri… to help with our questionnaire, is your Social Security number, 238-34-7327?

Les: “No, I’m afraid it’s not. Also, you’re currently breathing Oregon air. By the way, this porch you’re standing on is attached to a single family dwelling. Not, as you may have noticed, a retirement community.”

G Man: “I see. Let me make a note of that.”

Les: “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that cleared-up. I’ll bet you got a few more of those tough questions, don’t you?”

G Man: “Born June 20th, 1925, in Los Angeles, California.”

Les: “Was that a question or a statement? But oh so close that time. Your information would be 100% dead-on, if you don’t mind adding over thirty years to my life and being born on the wrong coast. Still, a good try. Johnny, do we have a consultation prize? What? A new car?”

G Man: “Humm, I see. I’ll just jot all that down.”

Les: “You do that, Sparky.”

G Man: “Three kids. Wife died in 1960 in a tragic train accident. You’ve been on a respirator and in a wheelchair since your massive coronary nine years ago. Numerous hospital stays. Other operations. A long list of medications. You have diabetes, glaucoma, high blood pressure and herpes.

Les: “Please, Mister Government Man, don’t tell my wife -who by the way, is sitting in that chair over there- about the other two kids or the herpes, okay? The shock of finding out she’s been tragically dead since before she was born, is going to be tough enough on her.”

G Man: “I’ll just…”

Les: “Yeah, I know, write it down.”

G Man: “Yes, sir.”

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Les: “Just what are you scribbling with that crayon anyway?”

G Man: “A few notes about your mental state, that’s all.”

Les: “My mental state? You’re the one who seems to be in a bit of a conundrum about who you’re talking to and what part of the country you’re in.”

G Man: “No sir, I don’t.”

Les: “You don’t what?”

G Man: “Have any confusion at all. I’m from the Government. We’re never wrong.”

Les: “This is the place where I’m suppose to laugh. But instead, I think I’ll play along, he said to himself. Alright Zippy, how do you explain talking to a guy who’s real name isn’t Les James, is much younger than the geezer you’re looking for, not in a wheelchair or using a respirator, who’s wife is very much alive, and who is residing in the Pacific North West, not the Mid-West?”

G Man: “Delusions, sir.”

Les: “Finally. At least you got that right. You are rather delusional.”

G Man: “Not me, sir. You. You obviously are suffering from a break with reality.

Les: “I’m suffering from a break? And what is this reality of which you speak? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of any such beast in this administration. Bad boy. You’ve been skipping your meds again, haven’t you?”

G Man: “Fine, sir. Now, since your hospital bills exceed any future offset in meaningful productivity, you had been re-classified as High Maintenance. But with this sudden shift in mental awareness manifesting itself, I have no choice but to re-direct your Obam-I-Care and Social Security benefits back to the General Fund.

Les: “So Scooter, let me see if I got this right. In your fantasy world, your stopping my health care and cutting off my only source of income. In other words, poor, old Les James is soon to be in the past tense. I should be pissed.”

G Man: “A momentary mild display of negative emotions is expected, followed by brief time of reflection, and then positive feels about your role in the national welfare.”

Les: “A three step program? Wow, the process of finding out you were terminal and coming to grips with it, use to have four. So Les is supposed to begin harp lessons. Stay permanently down for the count. Bite the Big One. Dirt nap. Learn to hold his breath, forever… Am I hitting this coffin nail squarely on the head? Listen here Bonzo, I think it’s about time for you to leave, before we have a three-legged race to the hospital, to get my foot de-wedged from your ass. Assuming you have insurance.”

G Man: “Right. We don’t use those terms, Mr James. We’re very politically correct about our choice of words. We’d rather say, that in your advanced years, you don’t want to be a burden on your three kids or society at large. It’s time you realized you need to stop using more than your share of finite resources, and for the good of the planet, take The Pill.”

Les: “Yes, my three, sweet kids, and all those grandkids and great grandkids… You’re a real loon, you know that? Now get off my property before I exercise by rights under the Second Amendment.

G Man: “Now Mr. James, swallow The Pill and everything will be just fine. It’s your duty to country, sir.”

Les: “My duty? Dag nab it. Billie Jane, git me ol’ Betsy and set loose them hounds! I’m fixin’ to shoot me a Revenuer.”

G Man: “Chen, Ketridge, in here, now. We’ve got another live one. It’s going to take all three of us to shove The Pill down his throat. That’s the fourth one just this morning. Damn conservatives. I never have this kind of problem with the Far Left.