My friends will tell you that I’m rather a pacific chap, harmless as a dove and all that, if not more so, but there are times when one simply has to rise in the righteous wrath of the Woosters.
It’s all very well these healthcare mavens proposing to fix the system by the simple expedient of making John Q. Public brass up for his own basic healthcare with his own doubloons. Or his own krugerrands or thalers or wampum, as he prefers. But what of the fellow who is beset with aunts? Yes, what price aunts? Many’s the hale young fellow hounded into an early grave by a baying pack of aunts–not that they would, bay I mean, I speak figuratively–with nary an epidemiologist in sight to buck him up. Rather gives one to brooding.
This is a problem the mavens should put their beans to. Administrations too, or I dare say their polling among likely Drones Club voters will down in the wine cellar. Ignore the Aunt Question and we shall kick like steers, dash it.