Up Shite Creek

We all end up there in some form or other, at various times in our lives: Shite Creek, that is. I mean, gambling the rent away, can deposit you up that creek, as would that poor decision to rent the mobile home and transport all that marijuana across the border. But, hey! At least you did something to end up in your predicament(s).

Greetings...and you all have a nice day!!

What happens if you get cancer, receive treatment in the form of chemotherapy, and are too sick to work full-time? Allow me to enlighten you: You end up being ineligible for disability, once you hit Stage-IV, and are no longer employable.

That’s called being up Shite Creek.

What happens if you are too sick to work, you are only 60 and you have no source of income? Because of corruption in government, your health-care premiums have just rocketed from one hundred and forty dollars per month, to one thousand, two hundred dollars, monthly, not including out-of-pocket costs, and all that is Stage-IV cancer. And oh yeah, the brain tumor in your head no longer allows you to drive; your license has been revoked.

That’s called being up Shite Creek.

This is precisely where Gluten-Free Mama is, as we found out yesterday, when we were down in Ukiah at the Social Security complex. Our original appointment was actually for me to apply for the benefits that accompany turning the lofty age of 65, which I did in September, with no effort whatsoever.

Everything comes to him who waits, especially old age, as the adage goes.

While we were at the Social Security spot, however, GF Mama thought she would try yet one more time, to see if there was not some survival crumbs that could be tossed her way, but all that nice Martha could do, was shake her head in sympathy. 

And Martha was nice; I mean that in all sincerity. She felt mortified that a woman, mas o menos the same age as her, could find herself in such dire straits. Martha asked questions, she typed into her computer, but all she could do was shake her head, no.

There’s a lot of that head-shaking, and saying of no these days, in high places, when it comes to help for any citizens who don’t happen to be billionaires, but I don’t write about it anymore. 

GF Mama and I rely, instead, on the help, support and love from family and friends, from which there has been an inexhaustible supply.

However, if I write a piece about a beloved community member’s passing, I get 3,000 page-views; if I do a hit piece on Number 45, I get 30. Both represent bad news, but one is bad news which has gotten old and stale. Yawn.

The newspaper article may as well have read, “Robbers struck once again, this time taking $1.5 trillion from those in need. An investigation is underway, but there is little chance of anything actually happening to those accountable, due to I-don’t-know-why.”

If I write a piece about a dog dying, I get 500 page-views; if I write a hit piece about Mitch McConnell, or that other hypocrite extraordinaire, Paul Ryan, I get 30 page-views. 

Since the only way I can make money on my blog is to insert ads, like most links you go to, and I would/could never do that, you might glean that I am not in this writing gig for the loot. 

Yes, it’s the adulation of the masses that propels me. Well, that and the fire-engine-red limo that whisks me around. You should see that baby on The Bell.

In light of GF Mama’s plight, however, I have decided to forego my limo, and get the ’91 ‘Yoda truck back on-line, after a few years of being genuinely “off-road.” The old dog has been parked within spitting distance of my front gate for three years.

The old ‘Yoda does, however, happen to be fire-engine-red.