My brother knew how to rescue me from a far too long hospital stay. President Obama, too, must learn how to twist arms, break bones and take compromising photos. Politics is no game for a gentleman…

It wasn’t the first time. And it definitely wasn’t the last time. But it was one of those times that my wife tried to kill me. This time I ended up in the hospital for a rather extended time. I mean, I was in that resuscitation palace for a tad longer than four weeks.

Let me run that across your furrowed brows once again: Four weeks!

And I might have been prone even longer in that very sick bay with my tongue hanging out if my brother hadn’t come to liberate me.

My brother is Dr. Brian L. Strunk, a renowned interventional cardiologist. He flew all the way in from San Francisco. To be quite honest, I don’t think my older brother came to Philadelphia so much to help save me, as much as he was quite concerned about saving the country’s financially overwrought medical care system. And I just happened to fit an appalling illustration.

“This is why medical costs have gotten so out of hand. This is bankrupting us,” he lectured my extremely attentive doctors. “We’ve got to get him into some ancillary care facility.”

My wonderful medical providers were nodding empathetically. However, they had salvaged my pasty carcass from a brutally-toxic, near-fatal state created by my wife, Stephanie Blatt.

As my medical administrator, she evidently had been intentionally overdosing me for over many months. My wife simply told the docs I must have tried to commit suicide.


And my medics told her to get lost in the night.

A short while later they explained to my brother that going back home was plainly no longer a healthy option. And they were still unable to locate an adequate alternative facility to relocate me.

At that, my brother, took it upon himself to track one down.

So, along with a good friend of mine, they went exploring. And found out what my doctors had already related. There wasn’t much, particularly within my recently acquired financial constraints. And even fewer facilities where you didn’t have to sleep with your eyes wide open.

But after an extensive hunt, and cognizant of my working and living in some trying conditions in Third World countries, he found a care facility where I could survive with little more than a knife.

And I did.

I bring up this little anecdote of my life to demonstrate that whether it’s me, or healthcare, or our legal system or Wall Street — it is that someone has to take charge and tame the amok monsters.

Someone has to make the hard decisions. Someone has to weigh the pros and cons. What can we afford. What can’t we. Who’s going to live. And who may not.

And since my big brudder never minded making decisions and dictating to his little brother when we were sprouting back on the farm, why would he mind now, especially when, as a prominent doctor, people actually pay him quite handsomely to make those pronouncements.

And, indeed, my brother asserted himself. He didn’t stand around asking for permission. And wasn’t all that worried about seeking forgiveness. He came out banging at the bell.

My docs apparently didn’t have the time. The nurses didn’t have the care. And the hospital social workers were barely audible. Hard to negotiate when you’re accustomed to folks genuflecting — instead of deflecting — before you.

Simply put, it would seem that if more people got their pock-marked derrieres out of their BarcaLoungers; if more people had the effort to care, and if more people would take control of their situations this bloody country wouldn’t be in the stupid situation.

This debt ceiling – the latest faux 11th-hour emergency that’s got our America on another eve of self destruction — ain’t nothing new. Everyone has been recklessly raising the debt ceiling and hiking the deficit since Reaganomics.

Only one that didn’t was Bubba Clinton. And the Republicans still found a reason to harass the Arkansas boy — not for overbalancing the national budget to a surplus, but for unbalancing Miss Monica on the floor of the Oval Office.

And now we’ve got President Obama, who may or may not know what the heck he’s doing, needing to raise the debt ceiling again. This time to the point where the dollar ain’t worth the fake Cuban cigar you’re sucking.

We all know that Obama didn’t drive us here. That one of the most hideous Presidents and evil cabals in our history – ‘W’ Bush and Dick and Sodomites – overspent and undertaxed this country right into the indentured servitude deficit of the Chinese banks.

And all those Republicans in Congress didn’t seem to mind, then. But now with a Democratic Commander in Chief, they suddenly got principles.

What they really got is too rich. They ain’t representing ‘our’ best interest, no more, but only their own. They don’t want the debt ceiling hiked without cutting expenditures. And, of course, they don’t want to raise taxes on the rich, because that be them.

But, who, as President Obama suggests, is going to do the right thing. Well, Prez, that’s gotta be you. You wanted the job. You got it. I worked for you. I voted for you. And now I’m still waiting for you to do something – to untie our Gordian knot and give Congress its Hobson’s choice.

I knew you were young and a tad inexperienced from the start, but you renewed hope to return us to decency. I am annoyed sometimes when you seem to be heeding your advisors rather than making your own decisions.

Decisions aren’t made by lawyers — or shouldn’t be, even though you are one. However, now you aren’t a lawyer, but the man in charge.

Lawyers are advisors and counselors – even though they may have forgotten. Decisions are made by real people who have something at stake, and not those folks who get paid, as well as all their perks, whether they win or lose –like our politicians and lawyers and doctors and lobbyists and consultants and CEOs and Wall Streeters…and so forth, and so forth, ad nausea.

You inherited a terrible situation, mostly created by ‘W’. We live in crisis after crisis. And the rest of us, including the vast number of reported and unreported unemployed, are stuck in the cesspool.

Your job is to twist arms, break bones and take compromising photographs. Politics is a dirty, ugly game conducted by a bunch of vampires with stock options. It has been said many times that the two things you never want to witness are the making of sausage and the passage of legislation.

My brother knew what he had to do, and he did it on his own precious time. As I knew what I had to do concerning my very ill son, and did it in the nick of time.

So I’m telling you, Mr. President, this is your time. You don’t ask permission. You may have to seek forgiveness. But that’s why we the people elected you President.

And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.

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