California Health Insurance Quotes and Blog

 Parents purchase California health insurance for their son while he’s enrolled in the Agriculture Program at UCLA — just in case.

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Trevor Young came from a nice maggot-farming Mormon family just north of Pocatello.. Blonde, Trevor was quite the handsome country boy, when he headed off to UCLA to study Agriculture. In his pocket was his “trick” for impressing young women, a sample from his Idaho farm. “Maybe I’ll meet somebody to marry up with,” he told his mother, a stout matronly sort. “Are you bringing your little box?” she asked sweetly. “Of course,” Trevor said, “It’s the best lure I got.” His mother nodded. “If she doesn’t like your little box, then she’s not good enough for my boy,” Trevor’s mother opined. She and her husband Hyrum had also gifted their son with health insurance coverage purchased from a California Health Insurance agent. “We won’t worry so much,” she told her ninth-born.

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Once on campus, Trevor settled in. One of his roommates noticed the little box. Left unattended on a bureau top, it was oval, smelled of chocolate on the outside, and was purple. “What’s in this Farm Boy?” the guy asked. Max Weinart was a junior majoring in International Finance from the Bronx and guessed precious jewelry, like a ring, was in it.

“It’s for a special girl,” Trevor explained, implying to Max that the contents were none of his business. Max nodded, assuming he’d guessed right.

A few weeks later at a formal soiree, Trevor met that “special” girl, Karen. Big-boned but pretty, she hailed from Jersey. She later regretted popping the question. “What kind of farming does your family do?”

“Wait, I’ll show you.” Out came the box, the one that had so intrigued the girls from north of Pocatello. Karen gasped at the contents in horror, screamed and reflexively punched, smacking Trevor in the jaw and knocking him cold.

While recovering in the UCLA Medical Center, with his jaw expertly wired, Trevor spoke through clenched teeth. “I got insurance,” he told Max, who’d come to visit.

“I heard what happened,” he said, “But why did you show that girl a box of dead maggots?”

“It was my fault,” Trevor admitted, “the live ones are so pink and beautiful.  I should have figured that when I’m home, they keep better.”

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A pleasant afternoon of Temecula Valley wine tasting is ruined by killer bees, but Chris and Sally Sadhart were at least prepared for the stinging contingency by their California Health Insurance agent.

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Wine Tasting

Chris and Sally would never have thunk it. They were an amorous and amiable couple, married for the better part of three years, prudent in the extreme, and were headed out to Temecula for a pleasant sojourn of wine tasting. “The tour will be fun,” Sally said, “and the local wines are superb.”

But there were so many wineries to choose from. Finally, a fateful decision was made. They turned their 2007 Toyota Tundra into the driveway and parked.

The tour began pleasantly enough. Harry, their guide and waiter, brought over twin tasting glasses of Syrah. “It’s a dry red table wine,” he said, “very nice.”

“Very nice,” Chris and Sally echoed in unison. The afternoon was perfect. A cloudless sky, not excessively hot, a little breeze was blowing at low levels near the ground, like a miniature headwind. It felt good on the skin.

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Next was a Cabernet Sauvignon. “This one is mild, note its deep red color, and its blackberry aroma,” the suave Harry said, dressed in a lavender Tuxedo, to accent certain flavors.

“Wow,” said Sally, “this is wonderful!”

“Indeed,” echoed Chris.

Harry interjected a factoid to make the couple’s experience yet more delicious. “Were you aware that this Sauvignon is aged in oak barrels for 18 months prior to bottling?”

He didn’t say that the particular oak tree on the premises used by the winery for bottling had been destroyed because it had been infested by killer bees.

“No, we weren’t aware,” Chris replied a little too loudly and emphatically.

The Zinfandel arrived next at their outdoor table. “This white dessert wine doesn’t age well, I’m afraid,” he spoke a second prior to the look of pure fear becoming apparent on his features.

At the worst possible moment, the Sadharts began arguing.

“It’s spicy,” said Sally.

“You’re wrong. It’s fruity!” Chris yelled with altogether too much emphasis.

The swarm of killer bees, guided to their table by the current of the micro-breeze and the vibrations of their arguing and possibly by Harry’s colorful if incongruous attire, began stinging the couple again and again. This did not feel good on the skin.

The Sadharts were fortunate that Harry had once been an ambulance driver and that an Urgent Care center was very close, and especially that the bills were taken care of.

“It was prudent of us to obtain emergency coverage from a California Health Insurance agent,” Sally purred through swollen lips a few days later. “We were extremely prudent, dear, although we’ll be in agony for the next few weeks.”

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An 86-year-old cantankerous man’s worst fear is realized when he goes to his first Major League Baseball game and gets hit by a foul ball, but insurance obtained from a California Health Insurance agent softened the blow.

Dodger Stadium

Mickey Moosaka’s nephews and nieces were at their wit’s end. What activity would their cantankerous grand-uncle agree to participate in that the entire family might attend? He’d turned down bowling. “It reminds me of pinheads,” old Mickey said. He avoided restaurants. “Flies and their eggs on every plate,” he said, sickening anyone within earshot. Miniature golf emphasized the codger’s recently shrunken stature. “Don’t belittle me by taking me to a place like that,” he’d said to his thrifty niece Sappy in his rather squeaky Buster Brown voice. It was decided that “Uncle Mickey” would take in a Dodger game at the Stadium. Above all else, he enjoyed baseball, despite his consummate fears. He finally relented but warned, “I’ll probably get bonked by a foul ball off the bat of Manny Ramirez.” The geezer was a lifelong Dodger fan but had never been to a game in person.

The Moosakas got a nice row of boxes not far from home plate but well back in the upper deck. The seats seemed relatively safe. “These are great seats, huh Grumpa,” chirped twelve-year-old Matty to his beloved great-great-uncle. Matty was in his last year of Little League and played all-star caliber shortstop on a junior version of the resurgent Dodgers.

Fifty or sixty foul balls came and went, a few coming close, within a few rows, by the sixth inning, when the famous Dodger left fielder approached the batter’s box. “He’s going to conk me with a foul ball,” Mickey Moosaka predicted. The first pitch to Manny Ramirez was a fastball, which he took. The next two pitches were outside, so the count was 2-and-1 when the fateful pitch came. “This one hits me, I know it,” wailed old fearful Mickey. “No, it won’t,” said Sappy, fast becoming Mickey’s least favorite niece. “You worry too much.” But the next pitch, a curveball, was fouled back on an ominous trajectory. It seemed like the ball had eyes. Sure enough, it smacked old Mickey on the forehead with tremendous force, knocking him cold. Carried out of the ballgame on a stretcher, he was taken to the nearest hospital.

But Sappy was no sap. “Thank God we already had accidental coverage from a California Health Insurance agent,” she said. “It didn’t cost us a cent.”

“Thank God Grumpa Mickey didn’t die!” wailed Matty, placing priorities correctly.

“I guess,” Sappy was forced to agree.