Since you have obviously kissed off any chance you might ever have had to be the President with your idiotic 47% remark, and will therefore not have much to do come the second week of November, I'd like to make you an offer:
Come be me.
Just for a week.
I don't even want to "trade you places," mostly because if being born with a silver spoon in your mouth requires having your head up your ass in perpetuity, I want no part of that.
So, what's it like to be me? Well, I got a pretty good job about eight months ago, so that's a good thing. I had been feeling bad for a few months before that, but, despite the excruciating pain, I just chalked it up to a fairly common ailment that lots of people have. Let's just say a tell "tale" sign of the ailment is the rubber ring that people afflicted by it sit on. I figured it would be all good while I waited out the 2 months for my insurance to kick in and then I'd go see the doc and get it "taken care of." (What I did not do was rush off like one of your "victims" to an emergency room and expect to suck off your disdained "government teat.")
It was all good...I sat through my month-long, 8 hour a day training (notice: sat), and barely made it to "that" day when my insurance kicked in. I only had 1 episode of pain so excruciating that I physically blacked out sitting at my desk at work. And I finally made it to a doctor without having to worry about how I would pay for the bill. Yep, sure enough, 8 weeks after that first doctor visit, it was "taken care of." The chemo and radiation had knocked that cancer right out of my ass. Literally.
Of course, I didn't get to work any of that time, but it was OK. My employer was awesome about my time away and greeted me back with open arms. I found ways to "get through" that two months of no pay without becoming one of your "victims," and went back to work. I'm just very fortunate that way.
Today, as I write this, I am sitting at the doctor's office, waiting to hear from him how we're going to battle with round two of cancer for me. I've been off work again going on three weeks with it now, and we haven't even started the battle. If I'm lucky though, this time, I'll be able to draw my short-term disability insurance, so at least I'll get 1/2 pay instead of no pay. But in the meantime, all those bills I thought I would be able to catch up on when I went back to work are mostly still there, and the pile is again steadily growing by the day.
So, come be me Mitt. By the time the election is over, I should be towards the end of whatever treatments I'm going to get this round, so you will step into the shoes of a man who feels like walking from the kitchen to the living room of his tiny apartment is like running the Boston Marathon. (Something your running mate should be able to tell you all about, right?)
Come be me.
Just for a week.
I don't even want to "trade you places," mostly because if being born with a silver spoon in your mouth requires having your head up your ass in perpetuity, I want no part of that.
So, what's it like to be me? Well, I got a pretty good job about eight months ago, so that's a good thing. I had been feeling bad for a few months before that, but, despite the excruciating pain, I just chalked it up to a fairly common ailment that lots of people have. Let's just say a tell "tale" sign of the ailment is the rubber ring that people afflicted by it sit on. I figured it would be all good while I waited out the 2 months for my insurance to kick in and then I'd go see the doc and get it "taken care of." (What I did not do was rush off like one of your "victims" to an emergency room and expect to suck off your disdained "government teat.")
It was all good...I sat through my month-long, 8 hour a day training (notice: sat), and barely made it to "that" day when my insurance kicked in. I only had 1 episode of pain so excruciating that I physically blacked out sitting at my desk at work. And I finally made it to a doctor without having to worry about how I would pay for the bill. Yep, sure enough, 8 weeks after that first doctor visit, it was "taken care of." The chemo and radiation had knocked that cancer right out of my ass. Literally.
Of course, I didn't get to work any of that time, but it was OK. My employer was awesome about my time away and greeted me back with open arms. I found ways to "get through" that two months of no pay without becoming one of your "victims," and went back to work. I'm just very fortunate that way.
Today, as I write this, I am sitting at the doctor's office, waiting to hear from him how we're going to battle with round two of cancer for me. I've been off work again going on three weeks with it now, and we haven't even started the battle. If I'm lucky though, this time, I'll be able to draw my short-term disability insurance, so at least I'll get 1/2 pay instead of no pay. But in the meantime, all those bills I thought I would be able to catch up on when I went back to work are mostly still there, and the pile is again steadily growing by the day.
So, come be me Mitt. By the time the election is over, I should be towards the end of whatever treatments I'm going to get this round, so you will step into the shoes of a man who feels like walking from the kitchen to the living room of his tiny apartment is like running the Boston Marathon. (Something your running mate should be able to tell you all about, right?)
Sorry for the interruption, doc wanted to go over "the plan." The plan is to pretty much kick my ass with chemo every four weeks for the foreseeable future, Mitt. He didn't put any kid gloves on. It's gonna kick my ass even worse than the last set of treatments, and let me tell you, boy, those treatments kicked my ASS.
And the best I can hope for is a good, long remission if the treatments work.
Yeah, this time around I'm gonna have to be one of those 47% moochers you love so well, buddy. If you haven't done the math so far, I've been off work more than on so far this year, and I don't see myself being able to get back to it any time soon. (Because that's just how us moochers are, you know). So yeah, I'm going to prop my head up with a pole if necessary to research what I need to do to get whatever assistance I can. I'm going to be one of those moochers that you so flippantly write off when you're joking with your billionaire buddies over a dinner that you charged them fifty grand for, Mitt. Fifty grand for the honor of hanging out with the likes of you. Fifty grand so you can mooch off them instead of digging into your own overflowing pockets.
So....come be me, Mitt. There's only 2 conditions: 1) you can't bring your money and 2) you can't be me without the cancer, so you have to take that as part of the deal too.
Let's see if it takes even a full week for you to change your mind about who's a "victim" and a "moocher."
Bet it don't........
