Last night, while we were eating my famous mushroom-swiss burgers (mushroom –swiss filled peppers for my vegetarian daughter-in-law,) I brought up the topic of weird Obamacare regulations.
You see, last week I had to visit the gynecologist. This yearly visit of lie down, lift your arms, spread your legs and relax, is routine. Only this time it wasn’t.
When I signed in, the chick told me to smile because they needed my mug. How creepy is that? I envisioned myself on an FBI Most Wanted poster of women who are habitual PAP smear offenders. Seriously, I had no clue why they wanted my image.
Next thing, I’m given this form to fill out. It started out with the usual song and dance, and then it took a wrong turn into lungfish. (I use that phrase because I did a show called Wrong Turn “at” Lungfish, but this question, if you could call it that, was definitely devolving as opposed to evolving in my thinking.) The question was: Authorization for mandatory drug test. It was followed by a line with PATIENT”S SIGNATURE beneath it. I remembered that I hadn’t shot up any heroine that morning, so I signed. Truly, I just wanted to get the hello outta there, but had no clue why they would want to test my urine.
When I was taken back for my mandatory drug test, I proceeded to do the unconstitutional deed, only to find upon finishing, that I could not reward my lovely escort as she had gone AWOL. So I’m walking hitherto and fro with a cup of clean tea for the taking, only to be told where my doc’s office was. Since there was no logical place to place my treasure in the restroom, I set it down on her desk. (Yes, I go to great lengths to become the teacher’s pet.) The rest of my exam was routine.
When I finished reciting my adventure story, my sister asked if I had gone to a ghetto gynecologist. WTF? I told her that it was the same office right there by the hospital. I then asked the hussy when the last time was that she had been in for the dreaded PAP. It wasn’t 2014. (Uh-huh!) As an aside; it should be noted that this sister also insisted I watch a silly show called Naked and Afraid.
Obviously, our fourth amendment rights are being breached routinely. I just find it extremely disconcerting that my pictured file will be at the whims of the IRS. On the bright side, they aren’t very keen on record-keeping; they prove that what’s good for the goose is guillotine for the gander.
Think on this: If a man does not pay child support or taxes, the IRS will withhold his wages or jail him. What then will be your punishment if your picture does not match or your urine is tainted? Will you be denied for a transplant? Who decides your fate? Better question: Who lets them?