Even Dolts Deserve Healthcare, Too

Normally, I avoid visiting my sister Apolitica at all costs. Not because of her, but because of her husband, Dolton, a dyed-in-the-fool right-winger.

But they'd had a second child recently, so I visited their tiny apartment to offer congratulations. It was the polite thing to do. (That, and Mom threatened to cut me from the will if I didn't.)

Dolton sat on a rent-a-sofa in his cramped front room, cradling his newborn daughter.

“I'm so happy for you two,” I lied. Dolton toiled at three part-time jobs; none provided benefits. My sister is disabled and can't work. They've had everything from appliances to vehicles repossessed.

Sooo...what to do?

Have another kid! Sigh.

“Dolton, Jr., just loves his new baby sister,” my brother-in-law said, gesturing to his ten-year-old nearby. “Don't you, little Dolt?”

My nephew winced. The kid was no dummy. Someday I'd have to ask Apolitica who the real father was.

“So,” I ventured, “what's the new one's name?”

“Dimina.”

“You mean,” I said, gasping, “she's going to be...a little Dim?”

“You got it!” Dolt said, beaming.

And some people never will, I thought, glancing towards Apolitica. She dashed into the kitchen. Coward.

From the rent-a-tube in the corner, Bill O'Liely railed against healthcare reform.

“Obama and his damn socialism!” Dolton fumed. “He and that commie Congress'll bleed America dry.”

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