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Community Corner

The Hobby Lobby Incision

The recent Supreme Court Decision: Conestoga Wood Specialties and Hobby Lobby versus Obamacare, is really worrisome.

 Now that Conestoga and Hobby Lobby no longer have to spring for employee condoms, what’s next on the Constitutional hit list?

 

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While this represents minor Obama setback, it is a major victory for fecundity.

 Were religious freedom or the first amendment carried ab absurdum, to a logical conclusion, what would happen to health care benefits for those people employed by the Christian Science Monitor?

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 The Christian Scientists believe in no medical interventions; their medicine cabinets contain only toothpaste, Q-tips, nail clippers, bunion pads and hair tonic.

 If the Christian Science Monitor were to exploit the Conestoga-Hobby Lobby  decision, their health plan might only include Mary Baker Eddy’s treatise, “Science and Health with a Key to the Scriptures,” a prayer candle and an assortment of herbal teas; anyone with appendicitis would just have to gut it out—no pun intended.

 And what about employees of the Scientology Quackery?

 Instead of getting an x-ray, CAT scan or an MRI, would they get hooked up to L. Ron Hubbard’s miraculous Electropsychometer (an Ohm meter as it is known by the lucid scientific community and the electricians’ union).

 Would critically ill employees get the hi-tech “talking therapy” to exorcise their intergalactic pathogenic demons?

 Not to sound selfish, but is this decision likely to cause my emergency hair transplant request get bounced?

 I flew 6,000 miles to find a donor—luxurious jet black hair; thick as a sea otter’s pelt too—and now I might have to pay for the 14-hour procedure; if it’s not covered by my teacher health plan, anesthesia will not be included—just great!

 Can I at least get a bottle of Jack Daniels to sip during the procedure?

 You may think this is going overboard, but truthfully, I had scheduled an appointment for laser nasal hair removal and that was cancelled only minutes after the Conestoga-Hobby decision was announced.

 Coincidence? I think not!

 Some sassy receptionist said in a flippant, insensitive voice, “I’m sorry, but Medicare does not recognize nasal hair as a life threatening condition.”

 Easy for her to say; imagine an overpaid file clerk making life or death decisions as blithely as if she were flipping a coin or betting at the track.

 It gets worse.

 Rather than letting out the seams on my suit again, my tailor delicately suggested that I lose 40 pounds; will my employer cancel my liposuction coverage too?

 Because of this Supreme Court decision I will probably have to attend my daughter’s wedding in spandex stretch tuxedo with the buttons straining on their unravelling threads—how embarrassing.

 To get even a marginally noticeable weight loss, I would have to exercise stoic self-control and an iron will at the dinner table—no seconds, thirds or fourths and definitely no more than one or two desserts.

 My cardiologist actually suggested I jump on a stair master to achieve the sculpted look of Chris Christie—Doc, it’s not very professional to yank someone’s chain like that.

 And why aren’t instruments of torture like stair masters, stationary bikes and tread mills covered by the Geneva Convention?

 Perhaps if they had Hellfire Missiles, Canisters of Mustard Gas and Barrel Bombs mounted under the handlebars that would get the UN to show a little interest.

 As a Stage Four Hypochondriac this recent decision may interfere with me getting the placebos that have kept of host of life threatening diseases and full-body paralyses in check.

 As my Doctor assures me, placebos are indubitably the safest form of medicine; anytime we are not seeing the results we want, we can safely double, indeed treble and quadruple, the dosage without the risk of embarrassing side effects like priapism, sleep-walking, satyriasis, Baker’s Itch, Milk Maid’s Knee or the dreaded Japanese Clutch.

 Society is always so focused and riveted on real problems: nuclear attack, the stock market, gas prices and the Kardashians, that it tries to dismiss people afflicted with hypochondria; they brush us off as neurotics craving attention, wanting to speed wash in the doctor’s restroom and to read free periodicals in the waiting rooms.

 The Swim Suit Edition of National Geographic? Professional Wrestlers’ Digest? Bass Fishing’s Greatest Hits? Come on!

 Even my therapist suggests that I only think I have acute hypochondria melodrama.

 Currently, I have maxed out my placebos rations.

 He suggested I use a nail file and grind the letters M & M off over-the-counter candies and gulp them if I should feel anxiety coming on.

 Yah right, as if someone is not going to know the difference between an M & M and a real placebo—after they just finished sanding off the evidence?

 How lame is that?

 Finally, tattoo removal.

 I have “Roxy,” the name of my second wife, tattooed from the nape of my neck down to the end of my coccyx, if my current wife were to see it, I could sit back and watch another pre-nuptial contract get dropped into the silage chopper at Family Court.

 The HMO says the tattoo ain’t covered because it was a pre-existing condition.

 Great! So I’m going keep coming up with novel excuses as to why I haven’t been without a tank top during our five years of wedded bliss?

 If you’re a little brought down because you aren’t getting a dozen free condoms every week, stop and think about the rest of the planet; walk a mile in my flip-flops with my Milk Maid’s Knee gnawing at you.

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