CRADLE TO GRAVE, BABY
Jon Rappoport
MAY 21, 2011. Much talk these days about phony victims seeking freebies and making up stories to qualify for them. It’s all tied in, of course, to political correctness, whose ultimate goal is inventing so many oppressed people that anyone who laughs must be offending somebody—and will be fined and fired from work for it.
But all this pales by comparison with the agenda of the medical cartel.
Now we’re talking about real heavyweights.
Don’t have a disease or disorder? They’ll invent three or four for you. And cash in on the drugs you use.
The ultimate goal is cradle to grave “care” for everyone. Official “patient” status from the womb to the cemetery—and if they could figure out a way to diagnose and treat you after death, they’d have MDs walking on clouds with butterfly nets.
Permanent patient status isn’t just a device emanating from the cartel. People, millions and millions and millions of them, want it. Want it badly.
For the perks, but also as proud talking points that last a lifetime.
“So what do you have?”
“Well, ADHD, depression, Restless Leg Syndrome, and Social Anxiety Disorder. I mean, that’s pretty standard stuff. But my doctor recently ran a battery of tests and discovered I’ve got a rare endocrine disease. My thyroid is talking to my ass, and it interferes with sleep.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. They say one in ten million people develops it after forty. It can be fatal if it isn’t treated. Early diagnosis is crucial.”
“That’s exciting. Is there a vaccine for it?”
“They’re working on one. So far, they’ve only tested it in mice. But the mice eat each other. It’s a genetic vaccine. It replaces a DNA sequence in the so-called junk area. I’m on the list when they start doing clinical trials in humans.”
“That’s very brave of you.”
“Well, I feel I need to give back. You know? For all the care I’ve had. My cousin, who had a preventive double mastectomy when she was four, donated a kidney to me last spring. The California State Public Health Commission awarded her a medal at a ceremony in Beverly Hills. What’s that badge you’re wearing?”
“Oh. That? Partial brain transplant patient. There are six of us, so far, in the US.”
“Wow. Fantastic.”
“Right now, it’s experimental, but hopefully next year by waiting for levers on the buttons taking less carrots in the garden…”
“Hey, you okay?”
“Sure. I wink in and out once or twice a day. It’s nothing. I have a permanent port in my spine. On Thursdays, I sit in my doctor’s office for six hours and they pump in neurotransmitters…”
“Maybe you’d like to have dinner with us this weekend. My wife and I—she’s just recovering from her fourth bypass—usually have a few friends over for barbecue. I’m sure they’d like to hear about your transplant.”
Proud. Strong. Medical.
It’s a social system. A substitute for living.
Bringing everyone on the planet under this umbrella would achieve a level of control dictators can only dream about.
If the drugs don’t kill you, surely the soppy goo of the public relations flacks pushing this share-and-care ideal will drown you.
And the thing is, you’ll be tempted to side with the latest account of some heroic medical procedure that “saved a child’s life.”
“Doctors today at the Mayo on Rye Clinic performed a 19-hour operation to attach nine-year-old Jimmy Jones’ eyes to the back of his head, when it was discovered his case of sunstroke had escalated into life-threatening Dry Neuron Syndrome.
“The really difficult part of the surgery involved re-routing the optic nerve through Jimmy’s cerebellum,” said Dr. Michael Boodnogger, chief surgeon at the Thomas Edison Memorial Children’s Hospital.
“To avoid several more hours under anesthesia, the patient’s eyelids were left in place, on his face. But grafts quickly taken from the boy’s knees, last week, were sculpted into ‘hard awnings’ and fixed above the eyes at the back of the head. A small motorized prosthetic, to automatically raise and lower the awnings, is inserted in Jimmy’s spine.
“We’re just happy our son isn’t blind and escaped cognitive impairment,” said his father, a kindergarten teacher in the Indianapolis school system. “Now he can pursue his dream of becoming an air traffic controller.”
I’m waiting for elite shrinks to come up with a mental disorder called Freedom Disease (FD). Which of course centers around “the discredited belief that an individual has choice.” It’s a schizoid paranoid hallucination brought on by a genetic mutation, and the treatment is, again, heroic. Doctors blast thousands of random DNA sequences into the body through a sophisticated “shotgun.”
Side effects include “the formation of a weevily hardtack odiferous coating encapsulating both thighs, withering genital paralysis, gradual evaporation of the legs, cruciferous vegetable roots hanging from the ears, the excretion of cow’s milk from skin pores, and with the diminution of IQ to insectoid levels, relentlessly attempting to obtain PhDs right up to the time of death from old age.”
But not to worry, it’s all covered by insurance.
JON RAPPOPORT
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