Recently, we reported on how The Daily Caller’s health insurance coverage was downgraded due to Obamacare. Faced with steep new costs to complicate a personal financial situation described by experts as “suicide-prone,” Caller political reporter Patrick Howley dropped his insurance altogether. In his last week with health coverage, Howley indulged to excess in all of his unhealthiest and most dangerous daily activities before his safety net disappears on Nov. 30. It was not a pretty sight. Here is his diary from the week.
Cigarette Smoking (Part 1): Started the week with a pack of Camel Turkish Blends. Thin and reportedly sweetly “aromatic,” the pack appeals to my smoker’s palette but there’s a sense of brute force danger missing from it. I blow through five, ten, fifteen, eventually a whole pack and my lungs still feel emptily unmolested. More to come.
Drinking To Excess (Work): Technically it’s an office party, but I’m taking it beyond acceptable social parameters. UPDATE: Breach of social parameters confirmed. “Patrick Howley” listed as the sender of a number of early-morning staff emails with subject lines including “Hell for the People” and “VICTORY!”
(To Entire Editorial Staff): I’m getting [expletive] on how I shouldn’t jhe hump to conclusions, but I’ve been defended. Make no mistake. You’re the hoeroes. Let’s do it. Yes!”
(To Select Editors) “So why don’t you go [expletive] yourselves, [expletive]. I want to know what Bedford’s frat has going on, quite frankly. [Expletive] you. I’ll bow out. Thanks. Bye, [Expletive]. See you in anotther world.”
(To Same Select Editors): “I love everyone.”
(To Tucker Carlson): “Good luck on The Today Show or whatever.”
Eating At McDonald’s: A monument to the global generosity of American capitalism. They can tell me heart disease is America’s number one killer, but I’m going to polish off two dollar-menu double-cheeseburgers and a large fry and still have change left over from this broken ten-dollar bill to hit up another two double-cheeseburgers and a small fry. Michelle Obama has no power here. Society must keep it this way.
Eating Sidewalk Hot-Dog Stand Hot Dogs: I can buy enough to build a chain-link sled to pull myself to the emergency room. Two more!
Eating SPAM: Arguably my only friend during long cold winter nights. And like most of my friends, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I don’t know what’s inside it at any given time.
Riding the D.C. Metro: This is the most disgusting thing I do. I literally have Ebola.
Drinking D.C. tap water: The last time I went to the doctor, my X-ray showed traces of dirt, rubber and bits of shredded documents from past mayoral administrations.
Having A Casual Encounter: The risk of sexually transmitted disease is real, and dangerous. If I’m going to open myself up to that kind of exposure, I should do so while I still have health insurance. Here we go…. (UPDATE: The activity in question was not successfully completed).
Drinking To Excess (Bar): Two young women approach me. “Is anyone sitting here?” they ask. “Not at all. By all means” I say, pulling the stools beside me closer to them. The bartender walks over. “Sorry ladies, there actually are people sitting here. I’ll move you someplace farther from the door.” The women walk away. There was nobody sitting there.
Smoking Cigarettes (Part 2): Marlboro Lights. The cigarette of white pavements and nondescript sky-rises. The cigarette of trench coat knots and furtive sidewalk glances. Yeah, get it in my lungs. More smoke. Need more smoke in there. Yeah, fill those lungs up. This is the cigarette I need now. The cigarette of information-age solitude. The cigarette of…
Attending A Strip Club: Both physically and spiritually dangerous, attending a strip club in Washington, D.C. vastly increases the likelihood of contracting disease, getting shot, or, in the case of the strip club I chose to attend, getting shot by members of the Russian mafia. Therefore, I must give it a try at least once before losing insurance.
The room smells of unwashed stripper poles. There’s literally a guy in a Hawaiian shirt sitting alone. Good god, look at that guy with the mustache. Might I ever become like that? They’re playing football on a big-screen TV next to the strippers and most of the crowd is watching football. That’s not very respectful. The strippers come over after they’re done. You have to put the tips inside their leg stockings. Well, that’s cute. Here you go, ma’am…(UPDATE:) No, stop gesturing to me, naked woman. STOP! I can’t do the “Standing Next To the Stage While They Dance For Me” thing. I didn’t grow up this way. I’m not Arliss. No, stop cheering for me, crowd. I CAN’T DO IT. I only have, like, four ones. Okay. Okay. I’m going. The song is “Zombie” by the Cranberries. Interesting strip-club choice. Okay. I’m expected to dance along too? Oh, God. Oh, God. (UPDATE): “Does that mean ‘Get Out’? I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian. All right. I’m going.”
Drinking To Excess (Apartment): “My tea’s gone cold Wonderin’ WHY. I GOT OUT OF BED AT ALL. Morning FOG clouds up my window, and I CAN’T SEE AT ALL. (Opens street side window) I Wish That You’d See Me Now, That I’d Find A Home With Someone Like You…..AND I JUST WANT TO THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. And I, IIIIIIII, JUST WANT TO THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME….
THANKS, OBAMA! SEE YOU ON $90 PENALTY DAY!