Evil, Inc

Of course, that's just silly. Health insurance can't possibly kill you, because you never actually get any health insurance. What you get is a health insurance policy, written by some deranged lunatic, sitting in a dark bar booth at 2am, with a legal thesaurus and a "How To Cheat At Scrabble" paperback, near the tailing end of a probably toxic and definitely criminal bout of participation in Intravenous Tequila Injection Nite.

But actual insurance? Not likely.

I have hypertension, aka have high blood pressure. My condition's been noted by several former future wicked-step-ex-wife candidates. I'm occasionally tense. On edge. Grumpy. Just a bit. And discerning damsels often look askance at such eruptions. I mean, I didn't get to my age, still single, simply because I can't fold a fitted sheet.

But this specific condition is manageable, thanks to medication, unless you actually go get the medication. At that point, you careen into a cruel feedback loop that goes something like this:

* You have a trivial tiff with your girlfriend over her platonic relationship with 115 pro wrestlers
* Your blood pressure goes up
* You kill her car
* Your lawyer bungles the case, due to his having been at Intravenous Tequila Injection Nite
* You're strongly advised to seek professional help
* Your doctor prescribes high blood pressure medication
* You go to fill the prescription
* You see the price of the pills
* Your blood pressure goes up
* Your health insurance provider (Evil, Inc.) rejects your claim
* Your blood pressure goes up
* You refuse to pay the premiums
* Evil, Inc. kills your car

And so on.

There's nothing you can do, because it's clearly noted on page 3,271 of your policy, about half-way down the page, that hypertension drugs are not covered if your lawyer has ever been in a bar, or passed the bar, or had a bar-mitzvah, or worn mitts, or dated a pro wrestler.

I did discover that my policy would cover what is known as "generics." Generics are the exact same drug as the "name brand" version, except they don't have Marketing's massive overhead, and were prepared in an abandoned puffer-fish slaughter-house, and were dropped on the floor a lot. Turns out the generic for my prescription has two additional characteristics: it's much less expensive, and it doesn't exist. (see feedback loop)

And then I discovered that anything else purportedly covered by my health care policy, such as health care, wasn't covered either, due to "pre-existing conditions." But in my case, "pre-existing conditions" didn't mean what it would mean in normal language on a normal planet where normal humans live. It meant that I had not provided proof of prior insurance coverage.

And here, I had them. I could prove prior coverage! I could! Ha! Ha Ha! HA HA HA HA HA!

I filed the paperwork. No reply. Nothing left to do. Time to...time to...time to...

Call. Customer. Service.

Drone: Thank you for choosing Evil, Inc., Mr. Parking! Can I help you?
Me: So we've resolved the pre-existing condition requirements, yes?
Drone: Yes, Mr. Parstow.
Me: So I should re-file this rejected claim or what?
Drone: No, Mr. Parson, that was rejected due to a "high-risk" policy rider, not a pre-existing condition.
Me: Then why does it say here on your rejection document that it was rejected due to a pre-existing condition?
Drone: Oh yeah. Can you hold?
Me: [very un-church-like suggestions]

Days passed.

[follow-up phone call]
Me (swallowing pills like they're Altoids): SO YOU'RE TAKING CARE OF THIS OR WHAT?
Drone: Mr. Parlor, our records show that you did not choose the "Actually Get Pre-Deceased Health Coverage" sub-clause of the Level 38 post-natal option (at an annualized rate of only 28 cents a minute if paying by bank draft), which would have covered any issues occurring between your street and your house (unless you lived there), as well as few, if not none, of your relevant co-funded in-network out-of-pocket post-pre-existing-condition living expenses, unless you have a skull, were born with legs, have more than one but less than three eyes, or ever become pregnant by a pro wrestler. Okay?
Me: Can you hold? I think I'm having a feedback loop.
Drone: Thank you for choosing Evil, Inc., Mr. Parch!
Me: [something guttural, involving fairly radical self-awareness techniques]

I think I'll wait and call them back after I'm deceased.