Today I rant on a subject many know to be true, but few will utter. Most remain fearful of the associated politically correct backlash. Even The Daily Discord initially reviewed this submission and said, “Ahh, Cranko, I danno about dis one.” Who am I kidding? These schmucks will post anything.

As I am following football for a relatively short period of time and have terminal ADHD, I have not yet mastered the jargon, nor am I the armchair/Monday morning quarterback. I am an observer, and I have observed something that no one else talks much about.

You can be the world’s best quarterback, tall and handsome, with a bullet-perfect arm. You can be the most agile wide receiver, able to leap into the air for the game winning catch. You can be the special teams guy that returns the punt for a 99-yard touchdown. And yet you will garner more publicity, accolades and money than in your wildest dreams. The pundits on ESPN, the NFL channel, and sports reports everywhere will talk of you.  You will be interviewed many times, and all the fans will be enamored with your smile. Today’s NFL is a testament to the leader, the overachiever, the ‘winner’. There is one glaring problem with this. It’s all bullshit.

The little dirty secret all the quarterbacks and wide receivers keep from the public is this:

they would all be nothing without the ‘beasts’ and the men with tits. Let me explain.

As any QB will tell you, when they get the ball snapped to them and they stand up, what they see is a line of ‘beasts’ all trying to kill them. What stands between them and imminent death? A line of human busses, condos with feet, fleshy brick walls. This is also why in Middle-Earth the orcs followed behind the trolls.

These unsung heroes all share one thing. There is a reason they are not often interviewed. No one will ever accuse any of them of being Mensa material. They are not verbal, and they don’t care. They don’t care what you think. They don’t care how they look on TV. They are all thankful for the opportunity to earn the kind of money most men they grew up with will never see in their lifetime. They take what they do very seriously.

The defensive line: people like The Cardinals’ Darnell Docket; people like the Ravens’ almost retired Ray Lewis; like Green Bay’s Clay Mathews; like The Texans’ JJ Watt—all human/animal hybrids who’s only calling in life is to cause the opposing quarterback monumental grief. Men with arms like our legs, and legs so big they can’t wear Corduroys without generating enough excessive static electricity to power a small city.

They also have to be agile enough to get past the offensive line. Not easy when you are big enough to be mistaken for a city bus.

The ones who get the least fanfare of any in the game are the front of the offensive line. I am talking 6′ 4″ or more, and upwards of 340 pounds. Walking barbeque vacuums. These are men for whom the term “big-ass” is a monumental understatement. These are men whose ass starts just above the back of the knee, and goes on to midway up the spine. These are men whom the quarterback has to watch consume copious amounts of wonderfully gaseous foods, and then has to stand behind while they are bent over. That cannot be a positive experience. These are men whose belly apron regularly hangs down outside their jerseys for all to see, and whose pads will never hide the hairy 44 DD’s hanging from their chests. These are men, however, that the QB entrusts with his life.

These offensive linemen will never catch the game winning touchdown pass. They will never throw the game winning pass. They will never get the big sack that turns the tide of the game. They are there for one reason and one reason only. Stop the beasts/protect the quarterback. They know what their job is and are proud to do it. They don’t look for the accolades for they know none are coming. The only time they know they will make any headlines is if they are so bad at what they do, the term ‘turnstile’ is used to describe them (see AZ Cardinals). These are the true unsung heroes of the NFL. Without them, the QB would have milliseconds to get the ball away. Again, see Arizona Cardinals.  Kevin Kolb is not injured, he’s shell shocked at getting his bell rung so many fucking times he now has a permanent twitch.

Once in a great while magic will happen. Once in a while, one of those fat bastards will be in the right place at the right time. In a playoff game I watched recently, the ball got tipped by a beast as it was thrown by the QB. All of a sudden, there was a fat man standing there with the fucking football in his hand. The rest was shown many times in slow-motion.

Screaming with a look of sheer terror on his face, eyes wide open, mouth wide open, there he was, running (well, kind of running) towards the goal line. In slow-mo, you could see his ass having movements one has only seen during the tidal surge of a hurricane. You could see his tits heaving up and down below his pads, like a bizzaro-world Bay Watch slow-mo. You could see his gut alternating slapping himself in the face and hitting his knees on its wild ride into the end zone. You could see him thinking to himself, “oh please God don’t let me drop da ball, oh please God don’t let me drop da ball” as he ran to the goal line. Then, breathing like a freight train and near total exhaustion from his nearly six yard run, he held the ball out in front of him in case he dropped dead before his ass got to the line. In one glorious moment he was there. The only time this fat man will probably ever score a touchdown. He turns to the camera, and with tears in his eyes you see him mouth the words, “Mama, I jus score a touchdown!”

For one brief moment in time, he was THE man. For one brief moment in what will hopefully be a long and successful career as a brick wall, he was the agile wide receiver, scoring the game winning touchdown to a wildly cheering crowd of fans. It was a moment I’m sure he will relive in his mind every time he dons his pads and walks out onto the field and takes his place as just another silent human barrier.

Walk-a-proud fat man, walk-a-proud.

Crank

The_Crank@dailyDiscord.com

Wow, nearly three of your fans got to watch you beat the Chicago Blackhawks this year—your first ever playoff series win since moving from Winni-friggin-peg. Wanna know why? The following is the comedy, the tragedy, and the horror that befell one Coyote fan, namely me, during the 2012 playoffs. Damn Mayans. The Hockey Gods frown on you Arizona! They will now probably relocate to Seattle or Hackensack…and who needs a team out in Hackensack? This post has been sent to NHL Commissioner, Gary Bettman and to Captain Coyote, Shane Doan. They will respect my authoritay!

I love Arizona, if it weren’t for all these damn Arizonians. Yes, I am an East coaster and at times like this my condition flares up like a geographic hemorrhoid. For game two I drove down from Flagstaff to Phoenix for this epic event. It was snowing on the Saturday in question. We already had about a foot on the ground. Oh, and I have applied to become a meteorologist in the Flagstaff area as the job obviously comes complete with a medical marijuana card and a lifetime supply of the goods (aka, the weathermen here must be stoned out of their gourds 24/7). I think Punxsutawney Phil could prognosticate better after a lost weekend with Keith Richards on a bucket of shrooms.

Anyway, despite assurances that things would wind down by 11AM, at 1PM it was still snowing heavily. I said screw it and braved Route-17 anyway. I’m a hockey fan, after all, so I can skate. By Munds Park the snow had stopped, but at Camp Verde the passenger side windshield wiper decided to swing all the way over and break the only wiper I actually needed…the one in front of my face. Sears had just replaced the mechanism for the one that just went rogue and had rabidly attacked its driver side counterpart. It was a vicious maneuver not seen since the 2^nd game of the Flyer/Penguin series. Of course, Bettman would probably approve a 25 trip suspension for the infraction, wouldn’t ya? Free Raffi!!! Meanwhile, Sears later only replaced one of the wipers. Not having been there themselves, maybe they figured the other wiper had it coming. I am also applying for all the mechanic jobs in my area for that lifetime prescription thing as well.

So, as I climb over the Prescott Mountains, it started raining and sleeting again. I stopped at the Sunset Point rest area to survey the area. My situation was dire. It looked like there was a wall of water on either side of the highway, but there was a narrow opening due south. So I shot the gap and made it safely to New River Road. I cut over to Surprise, jumped in my sister’s truck and made it to the game, unscathed. I enjoyed a beer at McFadden’s, talked hockey with two Canadians–who knew a lot about old time hockey, eh—and two hours later I wanted to shoot my face off, because the Coyotes allowed the tying goal with 5.5 seconds left in the game and then promptly lost in overtime.

Forward to game six…where things get stupid. Admittedly, it’s not entirely the Coyotes’ fault, but I’m a blamer and it’s certainly mostly their fault. Game six is why I wrote this article, so Mr. Bettman and Mr. Doan, pay particular attention to this part.

1PM game day:

I’m stuck at work and can’t check the game’s start time. My work blocks all sports stuff on the internet. Oh, they also block The Daily Discord. The filter, dutifully installed by my fascist IT department, labeled the site either porn or mature content… which is bullshit, because it’s clearly both.

So I must rely on my wife to let me know when the game starts. She said 4PM. It’s Chicago time so this isn’t too unusual. So I dutifully leave work early and head to Maloney’s Pub for the game. Kidding! I always leave work early and head to Maloney’s Pub. Upon arriving, I parked it at a booth and ordered a Guinness. The woman poured the thing straight, not the traditional three quarter pour, and then she promptly forgot to bring it over to me. Well, that’ neither here nor there…actually it’s right over there and I can’t drink it. Then I soon realized the Ottawa/Ranger game is on. I Google NHL.com and find out the Coyote game starts in three hours. Good, maybe she’ll bring me my flipping beer by then! In her defense, there are at least two other patrons in the establishment.

I finished my beer and decided to watch the game at home. My wife swore it said Coyotes/Blackhawks at 4PM but now it appears the game is on CNBC at 6PM, at least according to the guide. So 6PM rolled around and I’m still enjoying American Greed: Scams, Schemes, and Broken Dreams (this would later prove apropos). Who needs hockey playoffs when you have the Bernie Madoff story, right? I’m not complaining; I enjoy a good white collar crime as much as the next guy.

I’m still not worried because I know the game really starts at seven. It’s Arizona, I’m used to this by now. Then, at 6:45PM, CNBC announces on the marquee that the game is blacked out in my area. Shit. Well, the game is on FSA+ at 9PM. All I have to do is text my sister, who has the hockey package, and tell her not to call me if they win. I will also need to avoid certain channels for a while, most of the internet, and I probably shouldn’t leave the house or answer the phone or even talk to anyone. No problem.

Oh wait, Facebook will tell me the scores period for period, which makes me crazy as I DVR some of the games, so I steered clear of that as well. Yahoo Mail would be a bad move too with all the typical razzing.

Shit. I’m the Administrator on Call for my agency this week. I have to answer the phone. Hmmm. This is playoff hockey…what’s the worst that could happen at a psych unit? I shut the bitch off. So all I need to do now is hide for two hours amidst some kind of information-less bubble, a place totally devoid of reality. So, I did what anyone in a similar situation would, I turned on Fox News.

This is like an old joke the Crank told me once…but that’s not what really pissed me off.

At 6:55PM, I switch over to FSA+ and it says Coyote Pre Game Show on the guide. Cool.

COYOTE PRE-GAME SHOW…

Ummm, it was the post game show and they were congratulating goalie Mike Smith on his shutout.

DAMN YOU ARIZONA!!! DAMN YOU COYOTES!!!! DIE, DIE, DIE!!!!!

Sorry, I just had to vent. DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am willing to forgive the NHL, the city of Phoenix, Sudden Link Cable, and Captain Shane Doan if they send me two regular season tickets for next year, provided the team isn’t relocated to Seattle (in which case include some flights from Sky Harbor to Sea-Tac). The seats don’t have to be on the ice or anything fancy, but not nosebleed either. Oh, and I’m only attending if you resign the contract with the Guinness kiosk, which closed recently. I moved my family west, as Horace Greely demanded, for roughly ten reasons. Number three was Jobing.com and the Phoenix Coyotes! and number seven was the coveted Guinness kiosk at Jobing.com. If over four million people in the Valley of the Sun would rather pay $8 a pint for a Budweiser product over $8 for a Guinness—yes, they were the same price (a salary tap?)—then you don’t deserve a professional hockey team! I was just as sad when the Dublin Draughts relocated to Scotland.

Sincerely,

Mick Zano

P.S. I won’t say no to a party box, in which case I’ll even cover the game for The Daily Discord. You might want to check out some of our posts before you agree to that part. Now don’t get me started on Doan’s first hat trick. Earlier in the season, I missed Doan’s second goal searching for the illusive Guinness kiosk, which closed. Bastards! And when Doan sealed the deal with his third, everyone in my section had just decided to stand up and go back to McFadden’s, presumably due to the lack of Guinness. So as the buzzer sounded and the puck entered the net (Doan scored with zero seconds on the clock), I was tying my shoe. You can’t make this shit up…well, I could but I didn’t.

So here we go. The newest video game is titled “Rich Assholes Battle Rich Assholes II.” Only it ain’t a game and WE, the sports minded public, are the ultimate losers. The economy is so far down ‘le crappeurre that even the Roto-Rooter guy has given up. We have a Pres that picks his experts like Bristol Palin picks boyfriends. We are now in THREE fucking wars, doing well enough in each to make Nam look like a swell idea. We are all doing more with less, which is why I now have a word count limit—or at least that’s what Winslow is telling me.

So what do the team owners and the players do? They hold a juvenile pissing match. And we, the public, are the recipients of said golden hosing. Are they THAT stupid that they think either side can garner public support? No, they aren’t, they just don’t give a shit. They all think that “it” will go on forever, like the Europeans thought about their way of life. And, like the Europeans, they have just run out of “other people’s money.”

Teams have become a thing of the past. Each new team member used to go in wanting to help the team win the championship. Now, they go in wanting to know how long they will have to wait to start their own reality show.  How do you justify a ten year contract on a player that will, at best, earn the money for three or four years? Stu-fucking-pidity, that’s how.  And, as for stupidity, the Discord staff is the authority in that area, I can assure you. 

No one can really afford a ticket anymore. Yeah, let’s go to a game we have to borrow $ to see, buy crap food we will pay exorbitant prices for, and wash it down with lousy beer.  Yeah, that’s the ticket. How about renaming it the 7^th inning retch? The Yankees found out the hard way with the opening of the ‘New’ Yankee Stadium that you can put any price you want on a seat, but unless you want someone’s smelly food eatin/beer drinkin/fart layin ass in it, you had better make it affordable.

I will put it to them as clearly as possible, if there is or if there is not a football game on opening day, regardless, if the seat prices and TV rights have gone up like crazy, the game will never recover, period. This is a lose/lose sichiashun, here fellas. We The People have all had it up to our collective olfactory with the whole lot of you overpaid Prim donna Neanderthals. 

Here’s my own NFL Special Comment:

A notice to all team owners & players, hear ye, hear ye: you are all past triple overtime in your 15 minutes of fame. If the NFL fat lady isn’t singing, she’s pushing her way to the podium.  Christine Aguilera was channeling something when she announced before the last Super Bowl, “the twilight’s last reaming.”  Nicely put, girlfriend.  Don’t go away mad, just tuck yo tails ‘tween yo cheeks and settle this shit, or, well, GTFO…

Las Vegas, NV–What’s better on Valentine’s Day than some old football coverage?! Somehow I am back in Vegas for the third time already in 2011, which is three more reasons Bald Tony is considering relocating. I am back at the Riviera covering this Super Game, knowing little about football and even less about roman numerals.

Why am I here, you ask? Well, Tony keeps getting free shit and when he gets free shit, he knows that’s my price. If you read Tony’s article on pizza last week, he mentioned I took this meditation detox challenge thingie…uhh, then he gets three more nights at the Riviera, free booze and food at a Super Game party, and, lo and behold, I fumble the detox challenge. Come to think of it, I don’t believe the detox gods were ever on my side, now Dionysius and Bacchus, those cats have my back (now if only they had my liver).

When Winslow heard we would be at the Super Game party at the Riviera, he insisted one of us cover the event. The bastard. I actually feel other sports are for people who don’t play hockey, but Mr. Winslow can be persuasive…in a Sith Lord kind of way.

2:10 PST – Prior to the big game, Bill O’Reilly interviewed Barak Obama. I had no idea football fans were so informed. I couldn’t hear one word over the rabble at the Queen Victoria Pub, but I’m sure it was fair and balanced.

2:16 PST – It’s time to finish our pints and head to the event. Tony decided to mess with me almost immediately. He vowed not to help me understand the game in any way. The bastard. He won’t even tell me who’s playing. The cheese-headed people wandering about lead to me believe there is a Wisconsin team involved and I thought the other team was the Dallas Cowboys …maybe because the game is being held in Dallas?! But I’m beginning to question this conclusion with all the Steelers fans milling about (have I mentioned I hate football?).

2:22 PST – My pint of liquid coverage is down. It is time to drop off the laptop in the hotel room, grab the old fashioned paper and pen, and report to the Grande Ballroom for the first pitch.

2:26 PST – Neither Tony or I have any paper or any writing implements of any kind. So Bald Tony opts to take some pages out of the hotel Bible.

2:34 PST – Pens were obtained even more heretically and then back downstairs and over to the event. The line to enter the Grande Ballroom is long. I’m losing my buzz. Somewhere Jim Morrison is singing your ballroom days are over, baby.

3:23 PST – Did she sing “twilight’s last reaming?” Hmmm. In retrospect it would have been better to live tweet this bitch.

3:31 PST – Announcer states, Packers v Steelers, as if you needed another reminder. OK, so it’s the Packers v the Steelers. Now we’re getting somewhere.

3:35 PST – Thank god the game started, the buffet line is finally clearing.

4:25 PST – At critical point in the action I called fellow Discordian, and avid Steeler fan, Dave Atsals, and told him, “Stop everything you’re doing! I need a picture of Michele Bachman with a penis on her head for an article that posts tomorrow!” Heh, heh.

4:26 PST – People in the immediate vicinity seem perplexed why I shouted “penis on Michele Bachman’s head” into my cell phone.

4:47 PST – Beware of free invitations. Here’s my view during the 7th inning stretch.

4:55 PST – Something just happened. No more guacamole at the bean dip bar!

5:00 PST – Discovered something important and switched from Bud Light from the server to rum and cokes over at the bar.

5:15 PST – Something is happening in the game, but I just tried to use the stirrer as a straw. No liquid has emerged despite my best efforts.

????? – In the end the team with the yellow pants won.

????? – Some minor damages back in the hotel room. Don’t tell Tony…

The next day it was tough to figure out this picture.  Not sure, exactly. It was either part of the half time show, or there was something in the bean dip that shouldn’t have been. 

The guys in the white hats finally won out over the guys with the black hats. Good has triumphed over evil, yet again. No, I ain’t talking about the final score, per se. I am talking about three particular players that had a lot to do with the score. And, believe it or not, one of these players wasn’t even in the game.  

My hat is off to Aaron Rodgers, for many reasons—not the least of which was sitting around in Green Bay, Wisconsin for many years (which I’m sure has its redeeming qualities, like cold, and snow, and wet, and, boring, and, well, being so chock full of northiness). He was probably told years ago by the powers that be that he should be content to hang around for a “little bit.” You see, he was the heir to Brett Faaaaahv-re (beans and a dry Chianti).

“How long can he last?” they said.

“One more season and he’s finished,” they said.

“Any day now” they said.

Yeah, well, that picture of Brett in his basement was getting older by the second.

So he sat around with his thumb up his ass, clip board in the other hand, waiting for Brett to die, for he knew he wasn’t leaving under normal circumstances. Finally the day came. The clouds parted, a light shown upon Aaron as the angelic choir sang. He was now in charge. Little did he know that Mr. Sexting should have quit then. Aaron was sure to be LMAO and LOL and even a little OMG. We all found out that Mr. Look-up-to-me-for-I-am-holier-than-thou was just another rich boy with more money than IQ points—complete with a last name that few can pronounce.  Oh, and less respect for women than he has for his Wrangler Jeans. He was now an official member of the Should-have-quit-while-I-was-ahead Idiots Club.

After working his ass off, who does Aaron end up against in the Super Bowl? Why, Mr. Perp hisself, Big Ben Where’s-da-white-women-at’ Roethlisberger. With even mo money and less IQ than Brett, poor Aaron must have been asking “Why God?” Even ex-Steelers quarterbacks and chrome dome Terry Bradshaw have no use for him, and even said so. When Born Again ex-Cardinal’s quarterback Kurt Warner said that Ben was not Hall of Fame material, we all knew his reasoning.

He was the one chosen to beat this juggernaut called the Steelers.  And he was the one to show Mr. Sexting that he spent one too fucking many seasons as a quarterback. And “the perp” had his ass handed to him on a silver platter. For those things, I am glad.

Oh, but perhaps more importantly, the commercials all sucked. $3M for 30 seconds?  That’s more than Jolie charges (or so I’m told).  The Discord only sends me a case of Coke once a year for endless entertainment?  By the way…where’s my Coke this year, Winslow? 

These companies should have rolled the money into cigars and smoked them for all the business these commercials will bring in. Madison Avenue at its finest. They are all more interested in the Clio Awards than what happens as a result of their follies.

Which brings me to my biggest pet peeve—no it’s not Zano this time.  No cheerleaders?  Really? What Mensa member made that decision?  This is home to the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders and I gotta watch the dance of the drunken John Goodman’s?

 “Let’s just show all the fat drunk guys with their naked frozen bellies painted…yeah, that should do the trick.”  Hurp Durp.

Most watched TV show of all time?! Good. More people need to see good triumph over evil. Kinda’ like the opposite of Washington DC. I think from now on, in order to get a multimillion dollar contract, the players should have an IQ test. And we need to enforce the current clauses in these contracts with more than just a slap on the ass.

Crank

Tiger (the name says it all) Woods has been beat up, beat off, ridiculed, and fairly accused of doing what most men can only dream of.  To that end I say, All Hail the Tiger!  I know many are saying that these are despicable acts he committed that have caused much damage, but, in reality, everyone will be just fine (trust fund me on this). 

I know Mindy Laywton is still screaming his name.  She’s lucky, for it seems he took her on pro-bono.  (Remember Sesame Street?  Which one of these is not the other?).   After all, a drunken Tiger is not a bad catch for a waitress at a pancake house.   Better than I ever got…where’s my pancakes you toothless whore! (hat tip: Shappy).  Elin Nordegren, his soon ex-to-be, will end up loaded (and not in the drunk pancake house boinking kind of way).  His children Charlie and Sam may be impacted by this in the future, but, hey, at least they have normal names unlike most superstar kids.  Most of the child star phenomenon can be linked to poor name choices.  I’m talking to you Moon Unit.  Besides, neither of them has been hung over balconies, pricked by needles to establish paternity, and both will have a college fund on a NASA budget level. 

Tiger seems to be mirroring the life of his idol, Michael Jordan…perhaps taking the phrase I want to be like Mike just a little too seriously.  Jordan was also the king in his sport when he ran into gambling and infidelity problems.  Like Mike, Tiger is now taking an indefinite leave from his sport.  Some of Tiger’s sponsors may be hurt, claiming cost damages of 5-12 billion dollars.  Personally any company that has 5-12 billion to spend on Tiger commercials can handle the hit.  Besides, past sponsors like Nike, Gillette, and Gatorade will easily be replaced with new ones such as Trojan, Cialis, and Maaco.  Rumor has it, Elin is already working out a deal with Spalding to market a new driver called, The Smasher, with the campaign, so many car windows, so little time.

Take a look at some of the reported mistresses: our four waitresses, two from the adult film industry, two models and one cougar.  This tells me Tiger is not stuck on himself and does not discriminate based upon age, wealth, weight, or even looks.  In fact, it seems as though he is just basically horny and wanted.

These escapades are not surprising to me. The life of a superstar, much like a Daily Discord contributor, is not like the life of your average American nobody (AAN).  But let’s face it, everyone can’t handle temptation like a Catholic priest (maybe not the best example, but you get my drift).  Many pro athletes have a girlfriend in every city they visit.  Wilt Chamberlain, the first sport star to hit a million (and we are not talking dollars), had hundreds of women in every city.  These women are not victims.  This is what they wanted.  Just ask Ben Rothlisberger. 

But one question still haunts me:  how did a guy with the name Wilt successfully bed so many women?

This does lead back to the steroid question in golf.  The PGA has no drug testing policy in place, often sighting the fact that most competitors are fat and out of shape (obviously not steroid users).  Besides, if they tested for narcotics, pot, and alcohol, John Daily would be permanently barred from the tour.  Even Happy Gilmore may be forced out of the major tournaments.  They also believe theirs is a gentleman’s sport where they call their own fouls and trust their member’s integrity.  Tiger, after all, is a member of the firmest standing, thanks in part to the untested purple pill.  These escapades make me wonder, could he be using steroids?  After all, his gentleman image is now down the tubes and his new body-builder-like physic was not gotten at pancake houses while boozing.

To all of this I say, All hail the Tiger.  I imagine the new Cialis, “I Want to be like Tiger” campaign is already in the works.  It’s simple chemistry: 1 Tiger + one Cougar + two purple pills = one member in very firm standing.  And girls…do you have a little Tiger in you?

I need to shave, put on a skirt, and head out to obtain a minimum wage job at the local all night flap jack joint and wait for the call of the wild.

Can you pay $28.00 dollars for a knee brace sold on-line for $545.00 and feel ripped off?  I do, thanks to my last escapade with my son’s Orthopedic Doctors Office, and my insurance company.  Bring on government run health care, it can’t be any worse than this, I hope.

Please read this disclaimer before reading on:

[If you continue to read more of this article you may feel discomfort on the level of having a large non-vibrating instrument stuck up your ass.  You may also come to realize why your insurance rates are so high and why your Doctor, his accountant, every, and any, medical insurance agent, and of course the lawyers are all driving Hummers, and how we pay for them.]

I received a bill yesterday from my sons Doctor’s billing company for the amount of $28.00.  This was for a knee brace he needed due to some knee surgery.  One might ask, “So why does Mr. Atsals feel discomfort on the level of having a large non-vibrating instrument stuck up his ass?”

It is because of the first line which reads:

Charges	Pay/Adj	Bal. Due
$1142.00	$1114.00	$28.00

This is not a joke. The orthopedic office claimed $1142.00 from the insurance company for the knee brace which is on sale at www.braceshop.com for $545.00.  The insurance company then forwarded $1114.00 to the Dr.’s office and billed me the difference of $28.00.

On second thought it might just have been worth the $28.00 for the convenience of waiting a week for the doctor’s office to get the knee brace in and then being able to pick it up, instead of having it delivered, for free, right to my door.  After all if I paid for the brace myself and did not have the $598.28 taken out of my check for my insurance this month I would have pocketed $53.28 this month.  Hell for $81.28 I could buy Mick Zano a Hummer from his favorite Thai hooker.  (Note to Mick: 53.28 + 28.00 = 81.28).