Medicaid

 

(I'm too rich for Medicaid.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 10 a.m. and applied for Medicaid. Why the fuck not, right? I’m a member of the working poor. Hell, I’m an apron-wearing waffle boy, for the sake of Christ.

Anyway, I googled how to do it, and I clicked on the link at the top of the page. Sadly, it was not the right address. Instead, it belongs to capitalists and insurance agents who are trying to make a buck. I immediately started getting phone calls from every salesman in the known world. Fifty-eight phone calls in the span of four hours. I shit you not. It got so bad that I had to silence my phone.

I eventually found the right site, and I typed in all my information. But my chances of receiving benefits are pretty much zero. Don’t get me wrong. I’m poor enough if you go strictly by my paychecks. However, I have too much money in the bank. In the state of Texas, you’re only allowed up to two thousand dollars in your checking account. In other words, you have to be tits-up broke.

I walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Mom was sitting in her new chair. She bought it to celebrate her 78^th birthday.

I said, “I’m too rich for Medicaid.”

A look of shock spread over her face. “Too rich? But you’re a fucking Waffle Boy.”

“It’s my assets that are killing me.”

“Your assets?”

I nodded. “My bank account. The state of Texas only allows for up to two thousand dollars.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll cover Larry. He’s a minor.”

“We’ll have to wait and see. The application takes roughly a month to process.”

Here’s my honest-to-God feelings about America. I love my country, but I truly hate living here. It’s too hard. In South Korea, I had first-rate coverage through my employer. Plus there were plenty of hospitals scattered throughout the city, so you never had to wait for an appointment. Moving back home has resulted in a significant decrease in my standard of living. Yet what’s done is done. There’s no use in pining for the bygone days.

Even this nonsense of getting fifty-eight phone calls in the span of four hours is uniquely American. To me, it’s torture. But everyone is scrambling to make a buck. It’s definitely sink or swim in the United States.

Later that night, I arrived at the Waffle House at 9 p.m. The grill operator is new to this location. She’s a recent transfer. Her name is Bunny, and she’s missing all her teeth even though she’s only in her late 30’s. Like me, Bunny has no dental insurance.

The way Waffle House works is that the grill operators often functions as shift supervisors for the overnight crew. Dwayne the Dwarf never busts my balls because he’s more interested in smoking dope out by the dumpsters. But Bunny is definitely by the book. In fact, she insisted on teaching me the proper way to drop the sink and mop the floors and wash the syrup dispensers.

With that said, she has no people skills. For instance, one of the customers didn’t like her eggs and bacon. She said that they were too well done. This drove the cook into a tizzy.

She looked at me. “Let me handle her.”

Bunny threw some bacon on the grill for about thirty seconds. Then she picked up the meat with her bare hands and tossed it on a plate before taking it over to the lady. Needless to say, it started a conflict.

The woman said, “This bacon is raw.”

Bunny said, “That’s how you ordered it, so that’s how you get it.”

“I’m not paying for this!”

“That’s up to you. I’m just giving you what you asked for.”

The lady stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

The toothless cook looked at me and smirked. “Fuck that bitch. She’s a Waffle-House Karen.”

I sighed heavily.

How we’re the number one country in the world is totally beyond me. I’m sorry for being unpatriotic. But we’re a land filled with retards and fuckheads. In my humble opinion.