I never saw the process server who came to my front door Sunday morning to serve me with what is now my second lawsuit for unpaid medical debt. The process server, working on the Sabbath of all days, pretended to have a package for John Bear.
What a country we live in. The president has a right to be openly racist on Twitter, but going to the hospital is an expensive privilege.
The process server took the form of a human woman, but the slime tracks leading from my front door to the sewer betrayed the fact that she is a hideous troll who lives underground and likely eats stray puppies and nosy children.
OK, I’m just being bitter now.
Seriously, what kind of person willfully takes a job helping lawyers sue people over medical debt? For that matter, what kind of person goes to law school to sue people over medical debt? Could they not get a job euthanizing shelter pets?
May every last one of you schweinhunds develop intractable herpes.
OK, that was really bitter. Calm down, John.
I owe $3,700 to a bill collector. None of these bills involve actual medical care I received at the hospital. I’m just being charged for being present inside the hospital. The next time I go, by the way, my name will be Chango Ramirez. That’s currently my cat’s name. Let her take the credit hit.
So I’m $3,200 in the hole for two naps. The remaining $500 of the bill-cum-lawsuit is “interest.” It seems to me, a layman with regard to civil law, that paperwork I signed while semi-conscious and lying on a table hardly seems like an unenforceable contract. I’d hire a lawyer to find out, but I spent my last 7 bucks on a used Black Sabbath CD on Monday.
I did have a mild nuclear meltdown Sunday upon seeing this latest assault on my pitiful bank account. I’ve been painfully frugal lately. In an act of open rebellion, I ordered calzones and salad and tipped well.
“Forty bucks, babe!” I said as I signed the bill. “I’m out of control! They’ll never get their hands on it, the swine!”
“You’re ridiculous,” she responded. “Even your economic rebellion is reasonably priced.”
Anyway, I can’t let this go any longer. If the current political climate continues, debtors prisons are coming back during the president’s second or, gasp, third term. I could one day find myself inside the statewide electrified border fence of the Oklahoma State Prison for the Poor and gladiator fighting for canned peaches daily.
Yes, that sounds insane, but I’m no longer ruling anything out.
It’s not that I don’t want to pay. Right now, I have a minimum-wage job. If it’s a choice between giving my last 7 bucks to a shady bill collector or good tunes, I’m singing “War Pigs” at concert hall pitch as they drag me away to Botany Bay. It’s 2019 and there are “evil minds that plot destruction.”
Editor’s note: Anyone who thinks medical debt is slimy and wants to fight it should check out ripmedicaldebt.org.