.45 Caliber Headspace

The other night I watched Sicko, the most recent American slam-fest from the our most photogenic of documentarians, Michael Moore. As did I, some may first assume that he had just ripped off previous .45 Caliber Commentary, such as my implication that pharmaceuticals are rightfully pushed on us by the government to distract us from our crappy lives until retirement age—when we’ll be dead. It’s worth noting, however, that this film was probably made long before its DVD release, so if anything, he’s just an equally keen observer of social injustice and the corresponding benefits of social painkillers like alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Unlike Mr. Moore, however, I don’t rely on heavily researched facts to back my points of view. Instead I trust my own highly-evolved (and psychiatrically well-documented) sort of “Spidey-sense” that painfully alerts me to government crimes-in-progress. Though my Spidey-sense does not wholly correlate to Mr. Moore’s own politics, especially where diet is concerned, he does thankfully validate some of my own sentiments of criminally negligent legislation.

For the uninitiated, Sicko addresses the fact that the United States is one of the only countries in the world where medical care, a basic social service, is not provided by the government. This is the main reason I haven’t been to a doctor in years, aside from semi-regular STD screenings that are necessary for me to continue having promiscuous sex. Even to get these screenings at the free clinic, I must first prove that I am high-risk by bringing photos of myself having IV drug sex with rabid monkeys. Though not as glamorous as they may sound, these photos do the trick. After the the intake people have thoroughly vomited and I’ve sweated out the three-month waiting list, I am promptly whisked off to a basement in Japantown, where I’m given opium to anesthetize me against the (potentially life-threatening and excruciatingly painful) experimental testing procedures to be performed by unlicensed (and vengeful) former POWs. Japantown has actually been a ghost of its former self ever since we shipped all its residents off to containment camps during WWII. If we hadn’t done this, they would have surely spread like a rash without ointment and introduced us to Pokémon…Wait a minute; I think we’ve been had. Containing Japanese Americans did get them out of our way long enough to finish completion of the atomic bomb that would finally put their tiny country of origin in its rightful place among all the other tiny countries of origin in the world. Robert Redford now mostly owns Japantown; which is good, since he brings us Independent Spirit.

My favorite part of this documentary was where it documented how, despite previous media-dispensed xenophobia, France is actually the happiest place on Earth to be; and not Disneyworld, as we’ve been led to believe by certain religious fundamentalists. I had long known that it boasted the hottest chicks to be seen anywhere outside of Prague and the sexiest language to say dirty words in, but I hadn’t realized how warm is the protective blanket of its government’s social services programs. Not only do they have the top rated government-funded health care system in the world, but in pretty much all other regards, the government acts as its people’s guardian angel from conception to burial, or head to toe-tag. This includes their free version of the American debt machine of higher education and some other silliness about actually providing for their poor, tired, and huddled masses. The rich subsidize these provisions, which isn’t so much socialism as it is accepting a basic responsibility for their less soulless, I mean fortunate, fellow humans. For us, it’s more fun to just kill our fellow humans for the oil to keep our SUVs on the road. Everything really is bigger in Texas, including genocide. Maybe if we took a break from all the killing, we would also find the resources to make with some preserving of life. It really is no wonder we’re told to hate the French so much. Those damn French with their better way of life and hotter chicks! From now on, I’m only going to refer to French Kissing as Unprotected Oral Penetration. I’ll show those smug pricks who’s boss.

For a hot second, I actually looked into moving to Paris instead of back to L.A. I learned that to get a visa to stay there for longer than three months, I would actually have to buy at least $1000 worth of American health insurance. Ain’t that a bitch? Still, I wouldn’t have to renew if I could get a job there, but since I can’t even get a job here, I’m not too optimistic. Though fluent in Love, I don’t speak their other language, and Love only gets me so far. I could try to use my Love to marry a hot French chick that only nags me in adorable ways that I don’t understand and with whom I can have beautiful, happy babies that are nurtured by their government, but…um…gotta go….

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