Recently re-animated by working for an enormous salary in insurance subsidized services, the good doctor's fairy had generated odious religious convictions and copious capital in the form of co-pays. Ontologically, the irreversible loss of personhood was on everyone's mind. But terrestrial evidence suggested that from the source, all rivers flow downhill, typically terminating in that notion.

Beginning as an evangelical death panel hypothesis, this "probability of living eternally without government healthcare" meme had morphed toward infamy; penetrating Alaskan swamp-gas radio shows, passing for treason under the gold-covered bridge to nowhere and landing somewhere beyond the conceptual horizon.  Quite rapidly the questions of what constituted a human condition and how we could determine its needs had emerged as a political issue both philosophically rich and patently unheard.

Like an itchy uncertainty prince, Dr. Christsakes gathered up the opiate expedition tickets from his one-way commuters. Under duress, everyone had purchased them before boarding the common antiboat. The boomers were a little short of funds as many had complications of under-remuneration regarding their impending retirements. Somewhat exhausted by medical bankruptcies, most had conscientiously set their personal affairs in order, ready to give it up - notwithstanding the stormy crowd who gathered on the other side of the blather.

Double Blue-Crossing the River Styx, some prepaid winky whacktivists carrying semi-autocratic weapons and turbo snakes were bused in by repelican propaganda corporations. Zoned out hotsy sympathizers carrying flipnfuck mattresses from Null-Mart struggled to block some boomers from joining the hospice hospitality lines. But standing there in the majority, democritters who had lost their voices while in exile for nine years were now drinking unbottled municipal water and making reality-based appeals to reframe their optional hopes.

"Have you ever read that poem by Dylan Thomas?" Dr. Christsakes finally asked his passengers with a sardonic smile. "After the first death, there is no other." All rose on their last legs, placing their binoculars of foresight into a care package for the living. They threw paper airplanes back toward the children crowded on the shore. Printed on the planes surface was House Resolution 676, Medicare for All. The other side outlined the titillating Cash for Punkers program, already funded by insurance conglomerates and moving like an engine in full revolution.

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http://thomas.loc.gov/cgi-bin/bdquery/z?d111:HR00676:@@@D&summ2=m&

http://www.hr676.org/

http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/death-definition/

Like other dishwater poppyfish, mockshow host Shush Phlegmpaw extracted oxygen from over-the-air, as well as from supersillyously angry Re-Pelicans using a variety of aquamedia-structures to stir up the ailing atmosphere.

Carelessly wonkering down at the microphony again, Shush compared President O-Balm-Ah to his own late uncle:  A dolphin hitter in the illegal tuna trade. Truth be soldout, Shush had his own pecuniary propellers stuffed offshore, but never opened a can of tuna without thinking about his favorite Doppelgängler at Golden Sucks.

Teleconferencing in to his yesterday balkshow last week was Smarma Railin, an emerging quitter and fish gutter from up north in what is sometimes called the "pretend state," which I cannot prove, but I'll Aska.  Smarma could talk the hind legs off a blue donkey, but no one had asked her for a mirth certificate. Consequently, she had fictitiously agreed without confirmation to participate in a nationally televised "Death Panel" on the merits of Greed Reform, regarding salaries worth their weight in rescinded health benefits.

Spinning for the Re-Pelicans wasn't all it was mocked-up to be for Shush, either in real time or rebroadcast through Smarma. (You can't hide those fry in eyes.) She abstractly twittered her worminal deathfish, concealed in the hanging pouch that had stretched out to store mendacity and extinct blinkered species.

Bouncing zealously around the Tele-Death-Panel, Shush obsessed about his disabling chub addiction and the high price of reeling in those azure equus asinii canum. Several interchangeable members of the Washington Wealth Insurance Lobby also phoned it in, solely to keep the cameras out of their grouper nets, or as in the case of socialism for the dickfish sector, to monopolize the board game and profit from a government one-off.

And though the game of medical inflation was fixed, real ectothermic commercial bloodsuckers accompanied by unemployed Americans on the corporate media trawler responded with a fierce sense of betrayal, like they had to the pandemic of swine flu, FISA farms, or unnecessary wars.

Wealthcare was obviously not for everyone. A flea-market ideology for the masses was all they could recommend. So the "Death Panel" members voted overwhelmingly to fully fund and authorize Nocialism.

Singing little known jingoistic jingles to the flummoxed floater inside his head, his two surveilling eyes still more terrible than a bleeding pullet, Widdledub released the convoluted plans for his high-status Ambiguous Law Library which would be headed by Jonny Yoooo with crude overseas funding located sho-nuff off-shore somewhere in the a.m. going south. 

Despite lingering concerns and opposition from southern method-actors, Blunderdick half-heartedly mentioned to Widdledub that minor republican hummingbirds like Yooo, addicted to the red sticky of downwardly spiraling empirical realities always get access to the hegemonic legal juice and can still utter flutteringly laudable lies whether re-employed as counsel or wingnutted for political profit into creamy base-butter.

Widdledub slowly climbed the 22 key steps to his new ambiguous law office as deficits of doom squelched his languorous feelings like positron props holding up the democratic future. Grabbing Siddamn's unloaded 9.11 mil. Grok Huss-Pistol from his office trophy drawer and making a gurgling sound, Widdle wobbled for a spider-hole moment. A frantic call had just come in from Blunderdick's snide-kick, Diz Blamey (not the Lizbian one).  She screeched that somewhere over the rainbow in New York City in the duo-pluvial northeastern summer; Widdledub's 9.11 bullyhorn had been designated as misplaced malice aforethought!

Media memories had never spoken so intensely to Blamey's amorphous eyes without recalling the high notes that Daddydick had reached in the good old once-upon-a-time days before big-eyed blog surveillance had broadcast Blunder's blunders.  But now, even in the absurd suburbs and urburbs across ill-ogical Amerika, ice cream wagons driven by out-of-work lefties preprogrammed to restore organic cows wheeled through her thoughts, pressing her senses toward taste-buds of tubbiness and concealed curios and digitized alibi-sexual melodies repeating without mercy, evoking dreamy days that never were, but evolving solely for this simul-contrast demo-counter to Sunday talk shows.

Under Blunderdick's outstanding anti-Constitutional orders, Dizzie's bubbles of facial anxiety nearly burst when the uptight Lamebridge police department skipped through Widdle's (so far) closed Gates and surrounded the mystery woman, Gallery Flame, who had shown up unexpectedly like an outed CIA agent in an open dart gallery, concealing Widdledub and Blunderdick's unredeemed trophy tickets for the Guantanamo Bay Closing Ceremonies. Without standing conviction, Ms. Gallery noted as an aside to Diz that a post-post-press conference strategy had yet to be instigated by the gate-keeping community concerning the content of the 9.11 Lamebridge police tapes, and who called whom a what, by any other name.

Widdle reconfiddled his pistol while twittering for dollars in reckless rhythms. (Undisclosed in olfactory fictions with pre-existing renditions, Blunderdick had once again "accidentally" stolen Widdledub's bullyhorn without asking and was thundering his own anomalous repartee into the late Liddynight air).

Dubbuns holstered his gun and tweeted his grand opening statement to the press. By now the total media circus was in town setting up for the surreptitious spectacle of Widdledub dressed distinctly in a black judge's costume with an oversized white cowboy hat floating overhead; a rhinestone Happy Trails belt wrapped snugly around his embroidered demeanor. He smiled for the cameras like a lunitary ex-ecutive and continued writing scary decisions with disappearing ink, mimicking those enacted while in office. But instead of receiving the giddy glare of anticipated pre-publicity, all spotlights suddenly whirled toward the lonely figure of the new Whitehouse Precedent.

O-BALM-AH Reveals "Social" is a Pre-Existing Condition of Humanity

Mercifully slowing down the merry-go-round of transparent Health "care" lobbyistical bummers, Precedent O-Balm-Ah simultaneously achieved vibrational epiphanies in the heads of nihilistic reporters and the beds of corrupt members of Congress concerning their imminent vacations. But chiefly aiming his wizened words to the synthetically-profitable middle masses and to the many dis/under/insured debt-laden and disabled-by-disasters "our country isn't us anymore" citizens, he announced a pronouncement affirming the pre-existing socialized nature of illness (which is no longer covered by privatized health insurance.)

Suppressing his familial health insurance history like a cancer victim on pain-killers, O-Balm-Ah calmly un-elevened the abstract health of the nation, while also disarming Widdledub of his nine-o'clock Grok with a donation of bifurcated cowboy boots and a fresh copy of his Hawaiian birth certificate.

Notwithstanding a few New Guernsey organ re-locators, the citizen's representatives had pro-formally dressed up for the public's last option, but there was not a single payer at the revolving door, other than Denny Kucinich, Anthony Weiner and 76% of the American public.

Precedent O-Balm-Ah then declared that the Constitution was still in effect, in effect, though sorely affected by perverse capitalization, consensual stupidity, and herewith unreformed profiteering of the Common Good.

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http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/06/us/06gun.html

http://pacelawlibrary.blogspot.com/2009/04/doj-releases-bush-administration-memos.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_W._Bush_Presidential_Center

http://encarta.msn.com/encyclopedia_761572066_1____2/Positron.html#s2

http://blogs.law.yale.edu/blogs/reference/archive/tags/George+W.+Bush/default.aspx

http://www.loc.gov/law/help/statements.php

http://law-library.rutgers.edu/archives/000201.php

http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/sites/afterdowningstreet.org/files/askinsuit.pdf

http://claytonlittlejohn.blogspot.com/2009/07/sounds-very-scholarly.html

http://thinkprogress.org/2009/03/16/bush-bio-iraq/

http://topics.nytimes.com/topics/reference/timestopics/organizations/b/george_w_bush_presidential_library/index.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/24/nyregion/24jersey.html?em

http://www.democrats.com/single-payer-committee-whip

Good bye to George Bush, farewell Richard Cheney
Au revoir to Les Autres, eat cake Condoleezza
You won't have a name when they leave you in Bagram
All they will call you will be detainees

But what caused this acceleration of swine flu  evolution? Virologists have long believed that the intensive agricultural system of southern China is the principal engine of influenza mutation: both seasonal "drift" and episodic genomic "shift". But the corporate industrialisation of livestock production has broken China's natural monopoly on influenza evolution. Animal husbandry in recent decades has been transformed into something that more closely resembles the petrochemical industry than the happy family farm depicted in school readers.

February 6, 2009, News for Obama

This Economy blows like a winter windstorm from the east, raging down the Columbia River Gorge, cold air grasping us by the throat, heaving firs and cedars toward Portland. Bent down and struggling, limbs contorted by blasts of air, first up, then down, then sideways. The tree topples, the root-wad pulls up and a huge hole in the ground remains. Don't go down in the hole. Watch out for blowback, when the top of the cracked tree snaps and the tree springs back on top of you like rich republicans obstructing the jobs bill. This Economy blows.