This morning George Will rolled out one his habitual yacht-club favorites on "This Week": When I turned 65, he said, I showed my physician my Medicare card, who said, "Congratulations, George, now you can send your medical bills to your children."
Oh how droll, how deliciously dry, George. I say, my good man, I almost laughed--right out loud. Oh my, we simply must tell Father that one. He'll think it ch-a-a-arming.
So much for my imagined soliloquy. Here's what I actually thought:
Mr. Will, you ... are ... a ... prick. A real, indifferent prick.
For years you have fattened as a pretentious, sesquipedalian parasite on the thundering stupidity of pseudoconservative boobs. And now, although you could easily pay your own goddamn medical bills--a cherished freedom of economic activity to which you claim to subscribe as matter of indomitable principle--you stick them, and us, with those bills.
I could go on. But frankly, Mr. Will, pompous pricks like you deserve short work of it.