Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim weren’t the brightest bulbs in the room even when they were sober. But to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day, they crossed the line from merely asinine to outright stupidity. At 21, they were legal adults. They headed first to Paddy’s, a local pub. “Paddy’s has a lot of different beers – some of them are really green, and if they sell it in a green bottle, that counts too,” Jerry asserted. The decision had been to “go green” to celebrate the Irish saint’s feast day, even if none of the young men actually hailed from the Emerald Isle. On the way back to their dorm, Jack had the bright idea to search for “green food” amid the leftovers inhabiting their communal refrigerator. All moderately inebriated, the idea was soon seconded by the other three. “I’m sure we’ll find something that qualifies,” opined Jim, “I’m starved.”

The cooler contained a bounty of green foodstuffs, mostly inedible to sane & sober folk. But Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim were neither.  Jack found a plastic cup that had once contained fresh orange juice; orange was no longer visible as a layer of green mold had grown there. He dared John to drink it.

“Okay,” John declared while grabbing the cup from Jack and swallowing the contents. Oblivious to the taste, John noticed a container of mashed potatoes. He couldn’t remember how long the potatoes had been there.

“Alright Jerry, I dare you to eat the rest of these potatoes,” John said.

Jerry opened the container and gagged from the smell. “A dare is a dare,” he solemnly stated, beginning to shovel the bacteria-laden root vegetable into his gob.

Jim spied some guacamole dip that looked ancient enough. He was only able to get down three bites before he himself turned green and began to vomit.  John and Jerry were nauseous too, and soon were puking copiously alongside Jim. Jack, so far abstaining from the “green food,” grabbed a phone to call a cab, destination, the nearest ER. All four young men had coverage, courtesy of parental prudence and a California Health Insurance agent. Enroute to the hospital, the “boys” made a mess of the taxi’s interior, and caused quite a stink.  “You are disgusting” screamed the cabbie, but Jack tipped him an extra buck.

When Memorial Day came, Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim decided to make it really memorable. “Let’s go down to Paddy’s!” Jim suggested. This time, they just got good and drunk.

Irwin Steeve was known for “catching critters” – the deadliest and most poisonous found in California. He used a grabstick to capture rattlers, a gloved hand to garner black widows, and his bare tongue to entice the feared California purple glow worm, visible only in the glow of an expensive $5 purple beam flashlight – out of its secluded burrow. He knew that he couldn’t keep on tempting fate forever, one of these days a California-indigenous critter would rear up and he’d end up like that Australian, what was his name?   

But Irwin had a son. He’d watched his son Irwin Jr. grow up — a day at a time. Except most of the time, the phenomenon known as Irwin Steeve was never home, and so Junior, as he was called, grew up pretty much alone, except for his own beloved critters and also his mother. He preferred his pets, a circus of fleas that the boy was training for the big time. Junior had named most of them, all but the most talented one, and the tiny fleas practiced death-defying stunts under the boy’s paternal-like supervision, until finally … Irwin Steeve’s kid was a junior in high school, sweet sixteen. 

Irwin the critter catcher began thinking about his only child anew, what about college, he pondered, and what if God forbid, something were to happen to me? So he visited a California Health Insurance agent one fine sunny day, and bought a policy, available via ING Financial Services, money back term life insurance, like a one-way ticket to financial security for the boy and his fleas, and for the first time in many a year, Irwin Steve the original knew, if not bliss due to looking a glow worm in the eye, then a certain peace of mind just in case of the unthinkable.

A few months afterwards, the unthinkable was brought to bear by the God who plans such things, or if you’re an atheist, by a certain Mr. Fate, that peculiar name which Junior had bestowed upon the most talented flea, the star of his miniature circus, an aerialist extraordinaire able to leap tall toys in a single bound, and in any case, Irwin was attacked by an enraged harbor seal, bitten on his posterior, the wound became infected, and the rest is Golden State history.

As for Junior, he went to college on his ING money back term life insurance, with an assist from a California Health Insurance agent, and his late father, dead, just like the Australian, what was his name? Junior majored in animal husbandry, minored in the flea business, and as for Mr. Fate – he’s still talked about.

[ How to cook your own Fish & Chips ]

It was St. Valentine’s Day eve before it occurred to Ed Nolan, a diesel mechanic and family man, that the ‘holiday’ needed to be celebrated or else his wife and eight kids would feel cheated. Brought up Catholic, Ed had met his wife Nancy when they were both in sixth grade at St. Valentine’s School back in Massachusetts, where they’d been childhood sweethearts. St. Valentine, as gorily depicted in the Catholic semi-sacred tome, “The Lives of the Saints,” had been a cupid-like young teenager shot to death by bow sent arrows, according to legend. As these grisly images surfaced in Nolan’s mind, he suddenly decided, without any planning whatsoever, that he’d have to take the entire family out to eat for “St. Valentine’s Day.” As it fell on a Sunday, but for some reason felt like a Friday, he figured it had to be a “fish place” — a restaurant specializing in seafood dishes. A born procrastinator, Ed and his family ended up driving around greater Los Angeles in search of a “fish place.” Finally, Ed pulled up to a seedy-looking diner called Cedrick’s Fish Place with Chips. “Perfect,” Ed exclaimed.

The food, planks of greenish-tinged cod with murky, dark red chowder tasted good enough going down. The younger Nolan children especially enjoyed the chowder and the process of discovering what “lurked beneath” in their bowls. “It tastes funny, but kind of nice,” remarked five-year-old Mary. 

A few hours later, the Nolan family en masse became very sick. A large quantity of vomit and diarrhea began to permeate their humble home. Much of it smelled like rotten fish. Ed procrastinated until his little girl began to resemble Typhoid Mary, a tragic character in history just as St. Valentine had been in his painful last ordeal. She began to develop her own greenish-tinge around the ears, nose, and mouth.      

Feeling nauseous and leaking out the derriere himself, Ed drove to the nearest urgent care facility post-haste. He remembered when they’d purchased a California Health Insurance policy from an agent named “Bill.” What was his last name? “Valentine,” Ed recalled. Next year, the Nolan family would plan well in advance for St. Valentine’s Day, the family’s patriarch ruefully mused.

Fishing Accident!!

Pete Wafsleger was an expert fisherman. Using bait and a fiberglass rod, he usually caught his limit. One day in May, Pete and five old friends, all experienced fishermen sans one, headed up to Pete’s favorite stream in Yosemite.  They drove up in an SUV, if not exactly fuel efficient, the vehicle was “fishing efficient,” according to Sam, the SUV’s owner and driver.

The vehicle’s onboard GPS worked swell, and within an hour, the group of friends arrived in the park. Within a few more minutes, they’d found Pete’s cherished stream. “Here we are!” he yelled. Sam stopped the car. The men felt like kids playing hooky when they got out their poles, and baited their hooks. Everybody was in a good mood. Five casts, expertly launched, went out into the stream.

Before Sam sent his own cast airborne, he spoke a red flag. “How do you even know for sure there’s even fish in this stream? It’s only about six inches deep!”

Pete and the rest turned to face Sam and flashed him looks. Every trout fisherman worth his tackle knows that a trout stream is seldom more than a foot deep. Besides, they’d all pulled stringers of writhing trout from this very stream. But at that very instant, Sam launched his cast. It sailed into the air like the others – for about seven feet – until Sam hooked Pete with considerable force – right in the forehead. “Geez Sam,” they all cried in unison, “now look what you’ve done.”

For his part, Pete just stood there bleeding profusely.  Sam drove in a quite a hurry back in the way they’d come, in fact, even further, all the way to Barstow. An emergency room gurney lay waiting for Pete. As he was wheeled off into the bowels of the hospital, his friends followed along like grown puppy dogs, and Sam seemed especially bedraggled. Pete lay there bleeding and repeating in the manner of a mantra, “Thank heavens I got health insurance coverage.”

Sure enough, Pete did have a plan in place. He’d purchased it a few months back from a California Health Insurance agent who was also a fisherman of sorts.

A few days later, the friends were all having a good laugh amid a few beers, even Pete, still wearing a bandage to protect the stitches.  “Still my friend?” Sam asked Pete.

“Sure,” Pete said, “Can’t help it. I’m hooked.” At least he wasn’t the friend that got away.

Everybody who is overweight, not grossly obese necessarily, but even those who find themselves pleasingly plump, get the urge to lose weight right after New Year’s. Diets are taken up like Bibles, and gymnasiums and sauna rooms are filled with perspiring people of every age and description. The offices of Turtlebaum & Turtlebaum, a Sacramento accounting firm of considerable renown, was no exception. Joe D’Angelo by his own estimation needed to shed twenty pounds worn around his middle like a girdle, Patty Provencal seemed to possess a double stomach along with her double chin; Betsy Boopora’s ankles had morphed into cankles, and Irving Iso, although quite conventional in most ways, possessed arms like an elephant’s trunk.

At the beginning of 2009, they’d all made New Year’s resolutions to lose the excess flab. Each was about to be weighed to learn just who might be winning the “Biggest Loser” prizes which had been offered by management as weight loss incentives. But the results were disappointing.

When Joe hopped up onto the precision scale, he’d lost only two pounds, and Betsy had lost just under a pound. Patty had actually gained forty pounds, and Irving had gained almost sixty. To describe any of these losers as “winners” seemed a stretch, but throughout the entire year, stress and anxiety about the “weigh-in” had been bubbling in their bloodstreams like lava from a volcano, and during the celebratory feast something was bound to give. People watched in abject horror as Irving turned red as a beet and actually “popped,” like in that Monty Python movie, and as he was whisked away in an ambulance, the same medical emergency to lesser degrees struck Betsy, Patty, and Joe.  While Irving had suffered some kind of massive stroke, his co-workers were merely hospitalized; thanks to a California health insurance agent who’d issued them all policies, they at least got to stay in separate semi-private rooms.

Joe grasped the prize he’d won in his left hand, the sinister one, while lying in bed and staring at the funny whorls in the hospital room’s ceiling. A nurse coming by with a bedpan happened to glance downwards and discover what it was: It was a ticket for the balcony as a member of the audience for the television show The Biggest Loser.

Because of his manipulative personality, his tendency to steal other children’s toys, and his predilection for tattling, other boys avoided eleven-year-old Stanley. When he was outside, he played solitary games like one-hand-clapping, and worse, he’d listen to that hand. Stanley’s mother, a single mom, could be accused of being overprotective, but she had contacted a widowed California Health Insurance agent named Ralph just to make sure her odd little cherub was covered by an individual child plan. This precaution seemed prudent, even prescient, once she started dating Ralph.

Let’s go camping up in the Sierras, Ralph announced one weekend. The three of them headed for a snow-covered campground in a rented SUV. After their tent was pitched, Stanley grew accustomed to the canvas structure’s fetid air and began his characteristic clapping game, which annoyed the heck out of Ralph. “Hey, let’s go out and throw some snowballs!” he announced. Pushed out into a winter wonderland as if re-emerging from the womb, Stanley, who had never really seen snow, began making a snowball with one hand. Ralph noticed. “You have to pack it – use your other hand,” he instructed. All too soon, Stanley had made his first-ever snowball.  But instinctively returning to his familiar game, the one-hand-clapping, the uncoordinated snowball became a projectile and smacked Ralph surprisingly hard on the side of the face.  Before he realized it, and because he assumed Stanley had meant to throw the snowball, Ralph retaliated with his adult strength. He may have thrown several. In any case, Stanley eventually screamed, “He broke my glasses! Ralph broke my glasses!”

Stanley’s mom drove at breakneck speed for forty miles out of that canyon until she made it to the nearest ER, hardly glancing at her newfound boyfriend.

Stanley had been cut below the left eye by a shard of glass, requiring three stitches. Afterwards, Ralph apologized. “I’m sorry kid,” he muttered.

Stanley was quick to forgive. “Want to play my game?” he asked. Ralph was initially repulsed, but decided, “Oh what the heck!” As the SUV sped along a narrow rural road somewhere north of Sacramento, two elusive hands chased each other while never touching.

Thirty-four year old Geronimo Jones, hypochondriac and confirmed cheapskate, was lying in bed painfully pondering. He’d been plagued by headaches and this one was a “doozy.” Tylenol hadn’t helped. Geronimo’s split-level ranch in Modesto recently had an alarm installed; he’d gotten a deal. Drifting off to an anguished sleep, Geronimo possibly awakened; he wasn’t sure, instead of a clanging alarm he heard only silence, and was taken, by what appeared to be silver-throated aliens, at least several – one wearing a funny extraterrestrial baker’s hat. Up to the mother ship he possibly went, he wasn’t sure exactly how, it didn’t involve diesel. He lay naked on a metallic table unable to move anything but his pinkies, staring at what appeared to be a photograph of a cat; it probably had fur.

The probing began. One alien seemed to have a medical background, and was evidently very thorough.  It felt very good; whatever he was doing. But a weird voice oozing out of an orifice that might have been the creature’s mouth suddenly blasted Geronimo out of his reverie like a Buck Rogers laser beam.  “Do you have Earthling coverage?”

The next morning, Geronimo Jones for the first time in a year didn’t have a headache but was having a panic attack. “Are those aliens crazy? I didn’t ask to be admitted to their mother ship. Are they going to charge me for treatment?”

Geronimo charged. Impulsively, he put in a frantic call to his California Health Insurance agent. Ring. Ring. Pick up, pick up. “Yes,” said the agent, a woman with a pleasant feline voice, akin to a human purr.   

“This is Mr. Jones.”

“Geronimo from Modesto?”

“Yes. It happened last night.”

“What?”

“I was abducted by aliens.”

“Again?”

“This time they want to charge me for the medical care. Can they do that?”

The cat-like agent was quick on her feet. She pounced. “Yes, if they call me, they actually can. But they’ll have to call me.”

Geronimo felt calm again. Thinking it over, he felt like he’d made out like a bandit. More importantly, he didn’t have a headache.

For a 2010 Medicare Advantage enrollment kit call Matt toll free
at 1-866-861-0477

Mabel Mobry, still spry after surviving for exactly a century, pined for the days when she could get high with reckless abandon before all those Draconian blue laws gummed things up. When she was younger, she’d gone to Woodstock and heard Jimmy Hendrix play the national anthem. She relished her infamous pot parties, toking up and going straight to the bong, and getting a buzz. She’d married a man named Buzz, her third husband, as a way to immortalize those halcyon days, but he’d died in the bicentennial year, 1976, and that was a while ago. But now, in 2009, the pendulum was swinging back. Downtown and in the suburbs, marijuana was alive again, quasi-legal, if you used it for medical purposes. Stores sold it openly, if you had a prescription from a doctor. But Mabel was quite healthy for a centenarian. “I don’t feel a day over 94,” Mabel said to her cat, Woodstock, a white Angora that liked to party. What could she do to get her bong out again, a relatively law abiding old lady’s simple pleasure?  

Suddenly she had a brilliant idea, concerning her 2010 Medicare Advantage plan, the documents comprising it just sitting on the blue kitchen table getting dusty. Rock music started pounding in her head, Led Zeppelin playing some sort of anthem. She felt the freedom to act like Buzz’s warm caressing fingers remembered. He was her favorite husband when it came to physicality. Ring, once was all it took as her trusted California Health Insurance agent, a devout liberal thank God, picked up.

“Mrs. Mobry,” he said, sounding like a cherub although he had to be at least sixty, “What can I do you for?” A free spirit, the guy liked the freedom to juxtapose. He was humming the Star Spangled Banner, our national anthem. 

She came straight to the point. Woodstock was listening and nodded his approval. “Can my 2010 Medicare Advantage PPO plan incorporate a prescription for medical marijuana? Would such treatments be covered?”

“Do you have any medical conditions that might apply?” asked the cherubic California Health Insurance agent.

Mabel thought about it, but didn’t want to lie. “I might be going blue blind,” she said, shading the truth just a mite, as she could still see well enough to watch the Freedom Bowl parade on television, with its colorful anthem playing.

“That might do,” said the cherubic agent, “That just might do you.”

Need a Medicare Advantage Plan? Call 1-866-861-0477 for a kit.

Our National Anthem

Maisie M. Mynah was a sweet blue haired sixty-eight-year-old from Eureka who other than being able to whistle the national anthem tended to repeat herself and mimic behaviors so that it annoyed those around her. She’d been married eleven times and was still searching for that special guy special guy special guy. After hearing so much lately about health care reform, she decided to call a California Health Insurance agent for advice about her 2010 Medicare Advantage plan. After bussing south from Eureka to the Los Angeles area in order to pay a surprise visit to Max, her 7^th estranged husband, the only one who could still stand her, she looked up an agent named Matt Lockard, whose office was conveniently located in Ventura near where Max kept his bungalow.

“Hello. I’m Maisie Mynah, we’ve never met, but I’d like to discuss switching to a Medicare Advantage PPO. Can I make an appointment?”

“Sure,” Matt said, “When are you coming down?”

Maisie told him her circumstances, repeating herself a little too often, Matt mused. As he listened intently, he waited for her monotonous and repetitive voice to trail off, only it never did, instead it seemed like she hummed what sounded ominously like “saved by zero” the cryptic refrain from a  Toyota commercial, over and over, in the manner of an anthem.  

When Maisie showed up face-to-beak, as it were, it got worse. She strolled into Matt’s office. The bluish-blonde-haired eleven-time divorcee’s gait seemed mincing. Her voice grated on the California Health Insurance agent’s ears. Even simple phrases like “I’d prefer a PPO” repeated like another anthem reminded Matt of toenails scraping across a blackboard.  “I have Medicare Advantage,” Maisie finally managed, “but a PPO will give me more freedom freedom freedom,” she blurted in a parroted paroxysm of repetitiveness.

Matt felt like he wanted to scream. Although he had the freedom to do so he was always so polite to his customers. It was like a curse in these situations. “I’ll set you up with a PPO Medicare Advantage Plan,” he said.

“You mean in my Medicare Advantage?” Maisie squawked. She then proceeded to repeat herself several more times, once again in the manner of an anthem.

Matt kept that cursed smile on his own face – right up until Maisie finally left.  For weeks afterwards, that Toyota  jingle “saved by zero” played inside his head like a trapped cricket.

 


Sleep Well:
How To Get A Good Night’s Sleep

Autumn is not only holiday season, with year-end delights beckoning, it’s also “cold and flu” season, which fewer people choose to celebrate. Instead of Thanksgiving turkey and yams, and Halloween treats, think vitamin C and Echinacea. But what about sleep – not getting enough can suppress the immune system and create a likelihood of sickness.

As any California Health Insurance agent can tell you, poor sleep habits and susceptibility to colds and influenza go hand in hand – much like a germ-spreading handshake. Sleep, its quantity and especially its quality, can play a role in maintaining the body’s defenses.

In a recent study conducted by the Archives of Internal Medicine, scientists tracked 153 men and women for a fortnight (two weeks), monitoring the quality and duration of sleep that these experimental subjects experienced. Next, during a five-day follow-up, the subjects were quarantined and exposed to cold viruses. Those who slept an average of less than seven hours a night, it transpired, were three times more likely to become ill as those who slept for at least eight hours.

Sleep and immunity are apparently interrelated. Studies have found that mammals that require the most sleep also produce increased levels of disease-fighting white blood cells, but not red blood cells — even though both kinds of cells are produced in bone marrow and are derived from identical precursors. Researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany have demonstrated that “good-sleeping” species resist pathogens (germs) with a special resilience.    

California Health Insurance agents specialize in selling customized plans that allow their customers more sleep, as well as a better quality of REM sleep that facilitates dreams. If it’s known that you’re not sleeping enough, run; don’t walk, to the nearest office of a California Health Insurance agent before you catch a cold or flu bug. Celebrating the holidays is a lot more fun if you’re not sick – but if you do become ill, you have the right coverage.