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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Leonard was in a natural foods grocery store’s parking lot when a 94-year-old woman mistook his brand new Saab for a stop sign. It was a good thing his injuries were taken care of by a policy he bought from California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard.

Health Insurance Helps in Car Crash

Leonard Durban was proud of his brand new Saab. It was chartreuse with a gold trim. It had no flaw or blemish. While shopping one fine sunny day, he’d purchased his groceries two bags full and was preparing to exit the parking lot of Nice Foods where natural foods were sold.

His Saab was stopped. But another car, a 1965 Studebaker which was the color of phlegm had approached from within the parking lot as Leonard looked on with horror. The driver, one Agnes L. Penta, an irascible 94-year-old, was practiced in cutting corners as she approached stop signs. She’d been driving this way for what seemed like an eternity at least for any traffic she unfortunately encountered. As far as she was concerned, Leonard’s brand new Saab had no right to be where it was. Even its right to exist was questionable in her murky mind.

“I always stop at the stop sign when I shop at Nice Foods,” she toldthe police officer called to the scene, “I can’t help it if he was in my way. He hit my car. I had the right of way.”

Leonard had tensed his muscles when he saw the phlegm-colored Studebaker approach, and impact triggered a generalized pain almost immediately. But within minutes as Leonard’s sad Saab story was ending, he recalled California health insurance agent Matt Lockard and he managed a weak smile.

“You stupid ninny. Why are you smiling like a jackass?” Agnes screamed at Leonard while flashing what could only be described as her characteristic reptilian grin. At that precise instant, all Leonard could produce in response was an agonizing grimace accomplished while smiling because he now knew it annoyed the vicious woman.

When the phlegm-colored Studebaker and its despicable driver had begun to recede into Leonard’s memory, and after he’d been treated to alleviate the neck and back spasms caused by the accident, a more pleasant interlude occurred. Leonard found himself inside the office of California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard.

“You’re completely covered,” Matt said, “and your auto insurance covered the damage to your Saab. It’s fixed good as new. But that elderly driver …”

“I don’t blame her,” asserted Leonard, “Life’s too short.”

“Not for the woman who hit you,” replied Matt. “She’d take any moment she gets, and yours too.”

When a Father’s Day traditional pig roast results in accidental burn injuries to a gentle boy’s hands, it’s fortunate that his parents had purchased a child’s policy from California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard.

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The Smuckers of Visalia didn’t make jams and jellies, but for five generations the family had purchased a piglet during the previous December from a local pig farm for roasting on the upcoming Father’s Day. Always the eldest Smuckers child would be charged with raising the piglet to maturity in order for it to be slaughtered on its appointed day in June. This festive and delicious tradition was eagerly anticipated by one and all, although the boy or girl raising the piglet usually had harbored mixed feelings amid a sense of dread about the animal to be inevitably sacrificed. Dan J. Smuckers had told his son Jeffy, age 8, not to get too attached to his piglet. “It’s not a pet Jeffy. It’s just your job to raise him so he gets nice and plump with good meat on him,” he warned.

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But Jeffy was unlike other Smuckers children preceding him. “Yes Daddy,” the boy said, but he already harbored forbidden feelings of affection for his piglet, having secretly named him “Spot” because of a small brown birthmark on its little pink hindquarters. Jeffy was a gentle kid and loved animals, but he’d never been allowed to have a pet.

“Spot” grew up at a normal pace and bonded with Jeffy, often letting the soft-hearted boy scratch him behind the ears. His eight-year-old mind tried frantically to devise a scheme to rescue his porcine friend from its looming encounter with the spit. The pig, for its part, grew big and fat. Finally, it was June, and time for “Spot” to be executed in the shed. Dan surmised his son’s misgivings, and performed the murderous deed when Jeffy was at a sleepover one Saturday. While Jeffy cried and screamed when he found out, he was quiet on Father’s Day until the festive time had arrived, and “Spot” was appropriately spitted. But Jeffy appeared like an avenging little angel when the party was in full swing and the cooking had commenced, and when the boy grabbed the red hot pig to wrench it off the spit ….

Jeffy really cried and screamed as both of his hands were badly burnt. As the family’s SUV raced along to the local hospital’s emergency room, Dan reassured himself with words that he hoped would calm his tender-hearted (and tender-handed) son. “Don’t worry Jeffy. I know you’re sad because of that pig. But at least treatment in the hospital burn unit will be covered because we purchased a child’s health insurance policy from our California agent, Matt Lockard.” But Jeffy just screamed all the louder.

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