Two Fucked Up Hours
(More Proof "The System" Sucks)
Written by: Alex Sandell

About once every month or two, my life goes from "just kind of shitty" to "PURE UNADULTERATED CRAP." The latter is where I'm at now. It started with the tree knocking down incident, and has went downhill, ever since. I haven't slept more than 6 hours, since writing that update, three days ago.

The horrible decline into "seizure territory" has began. It started with seizure activity, and then moved on to "petit-mal" seizures. From there I usually go into the full-blown "grand-mal" seizures, that send me falling to the floor, in a fit of rabid drool, and frenzied spasms.

It just keeps getting worse . . .

Today I had to get out of bed by 9 AM (more fucking daylight), to go to a 10 AM doctor's appointment. Being that I woke up at 8, due to the good 'ol "let's make our living off wrecking the environment" cocksuckers starting their job, I figured I'd go withdraw a portion of the little bit of money I have left in the bank, to buy groceries, and stuff.

When I get to the bank, I withdraw the money, as usual. I ask what I have left in my account. It should be $400.00. It's $183.00. I begin arguing with the teller, over this. The argument turns into an all out war, and soon I have three managers, the teller, and the person who opened my account surrounding me. All five bank people refuse to believe they could "ever" make a mistake, like the one I'm claiming they made, and are sure that I must have withdrawn this missing $217.00, without being aware of it.

Yeah. And I'm sure I also went to Vegas and bought a whore with the cash, and I just "don't remember."

It gets closer and closer to 10 AM. I keep telling the evil bank people that this must be resolved, because I have an important doctor's appointment I can't miss, since I had to cancel the last two, and I need to get all my blood levels done, to make sure the meds keeping me alive aren't killing me.

They laugh.

Good sense of humor, these bankers have. I 'spose they'd break out in hysterics, if someone pulled a machine gun on them.

It just keeps getting worse . . .

This "mystery" withdrawal they keep claiming I made cannot be found. But there's no proof that I didn't make the withdrawal, either. So, since the money's not there, and there's no proof either way, I "must have" taken the money out, within the last month.

I leave to find the proof I need. I get in my car, and look in the glove compartment. I find a big pile of bank receipts. I search through them for about 10 minutes. I finally come up with my last bank statement. It shows the $400.00 I am supposed to have.

I run back into the bank, and hand this piece of evidence to the manager. He looks constipated. "We have went through all our paper records, and see that you actually do have the $400.00." I look pissed. The manager now comes off like he's taking a dump.

"We accidentally put $217.00 of your money into a new account we opened, when you deposited it." "So," I ask, noticing my doctor appointment starts in five minutes, "do I get any compensation for this?" "All we can do is apologize," says the manager. The teller chimes in a pleasant "we're sorry." What the fuck is this? I don't even get a free stuffed animal, or cool looking checks, with funny pictures on them?

I withdraw all my money, and tell them I'm putting it in a different bank. One that can keep track of their customer's valuable dollars. None of them care. What am I? Some poor schmuck with 400 bucks. $400.00 that will probably be sucked 100% dry by a doctor's appointment, which is supposed to start now. So I leave with all the cash I have to my name, and some sappy "apology." Nothing else.

It just keeps getting worse . . .

I arrive at the clinic 15 minutes late. They don't know if the doctor will still see me. They consult with him. (Notice that doctors never "talk," they "consult.") He agrees to see me.

"This will come to $75.00, for the initial visit. You'll also have to pay for any tests you receive, with cash." the evil receptionist says. "Huh?" Is all I come back with. I've never been asked to pay ahead of time, at a doctor's office. "Being that your bills have been so late, and some are still left outstanding, you're on a cash only basis with the clinic." I make sure none of the $400.00 in my pocket is showing. "I'm broke," I say, giving her my best puppy-dog look, which really isn't very good. "Then you cannot be seen. I'm sorry." More apologies. But this time, I have an ace up my sleeve.

I was just accepted on some program called "AACUP", or something. I have no idea what it stands for, but one of the local doctors; either with a good heart, or on a guilt trip, set up a program that allows people who are fucked from all ends to be seen for free. I haven't used the program yet, because naturally no doctor told me about it, until two weeks ago (and then it wasn't even a doctor, but a nurse, who I'm sort of friends with), but supposedly all doctors on "the list" agree to give you a free "consultation," and your medicine is paid for through grants given to the "AACUP" people.

With a pleased look on my face, I tell the bitch behind the counter that I'm now on "AACUP." "'ACUD,' you mean?" She asks. "Yeah, that's it." I reply, having virtually no idea of what I'm talking about. "The one where doctors see people for free, and stuff." "Do you have your papers?" She asks. Suddenly I get the feeling I'm a canine.

"My papers?!?" I question. "Yes," the evil receptionist says. "You need papers for this program. It's a program that needs papers. Do you have any papers?" "No," I say back, disheartened, "I was never given my 'papers.' I'm not rabid, though, if that's what you're worried about. Oh, and I've had all my heartworm shots."

"When were you accepted to 'ACUD'?" She asks, the "rabies" and "heartworm" jokes flying over her head faster than Superman could fly around the world, to make time go backward. "About two weeks ago, or something," I say.

"And you weren't given any papers?" She asks, again. "No. I was told that all I did was come in, tell you I'm on the program, and you'd know how to bill it." She gets about three other receptionists huddled into a group, to discuss this "dilemma." After talking amongst one another for about 5 minutes, she comes back to me. "You don't have any papers, then?" "No," I reply, for the fiftieth time. "We're sorry, but you can't be seen, without the papers."

"Can't you just call the Social Services place, and ask them to fax them over?" The evil receptionist looks taken aback. "I'm very busy, Sir; but if you want to call, there's a payphone over there." I walk to the payphone, and see some dorky kid is on it. I then walk up to another receptionist, who sits way across from the first, and ask if I can use her phone. She's actually kind of friendly, and agrees.

I call Social Services, and am put on hold. Finally, a woman answers. She doesn't know what "ACUD" is. "It's a program where doctors with a guilt complex give free visits to people with sucky lives," I tell her. It still doesn't ring a bell. She says she's transferring me, and puts me back on hold.

It just keeps getting worse . . .

Finally a second lady comes on. She's heard of "ACUD", but doesn't have access to the records. The lady who approved me is "at a meeting," so she doesn't know what to do. I tell her it's an emergency, and she says she'll transfer me to Bonnie, who has access to these files. I'm put on hold again.

Bonnie comes on the phone about 3 minutes later. "Could I get your name?" "Alex Sandell," I say. "I'm going to go look for your records; would you mind if I put you on hold?" "Everyone else has," I return. She slaps the hold button on, and Billy Joel starts playing in my ear. "Whoah-oh-oh-oh, for the longest time." I know the feeling.

As Billy Joel fades out, Bonnie's voice whines back into the receiver. "There's no record of you being approved for this program. Did you get any papers?" "No!" I answer. "Is this an emergency?" She asks, even though I already told her it is. "Yes." I respond, as calmly as possible. "How long have you been on this program?" "About two weeks . . ."

My conversation with Bonnie is interrupted by the evil receptionist, who has ran across the lobby, to scold me. "This isn't the phone I told you to use," she nearly screams. "I asked you to use the public phone. You're tying up a business line." "The public line was tied up by some kid," I say. The kind of friendly receptionist comes to my defense. "He did ask - and I let him use it," she says.

"Sir," demands Bonnie, pulling me back into "Phone World," "I'm really busy. Could you tell me how long you've been on this program?" "About two weeks." I tell her, once again.

"You have to get off this phone," says the evil receptionist, "the doctor isn't waiting any longer. He has to go home to his family." "I have to go," I tell Bonnie. Bonnie doesn't seem to hear me. "Could you tell me once more, how long you've been on 'ACUD'?" "Two weeks," I say, for my fifty-millionth time. "Then this is no emergency," Bonnie hisses at me. "Come get the papers tomorrow, when Diane is here." "O . . ." I am cut off.

"I can't get the papers," I tell the evil receptionist. "Then you can't be seen, unless you want to pay upfront." "Couldn't I just see the doctor, and then you could bill it to that Scud place, or whatever, tomorrow?" "It doesn't work like that, Mr. Sandell. If you want to be seen today, you have to pay upfront." "So, in other words, you're denying me healthcare, all for the sake of profit?" I ask. The evil receptionist doesn't answer.

"The system sucks." I say. "Which system?" The kind of nice receptionist inquires. I think of the bank. I think of this clinic. I look back to her, as I'm walking out, and respond. "All of them."

It just keeps getting worse . . .

1998 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved] To the guy who never gave a dime to this site, but wrote me DEMANDING a new update . . . I hope you're happy. If you like updates so bad; why don't you contribute to The Juicy Cerebellum? Help make sure new updates keep coming. Just because the "official" "Save the Cerebellum" timeframe has passed, doesn't mean I'm filthy, stinking rich, or something. Send me some cash, and then DEMAND I write a new update. Until that day; I'll write updates when I want to, cocksucker.

Back to the table of brains 1998

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