Imagine our economy as a living entity. It does after all have a normal ebb and flow much like human life, wherein at times it is healthy and at other times it is not doing so well. And as we have all realized as of late, it also seems to have a mind of its own. Now think of this economic entity in the form of a large robust male, with thick broad shoulders to carry us, powerful, muscle bound limbs to perform hard labor and with a quick, intelligent mind.

All right take it easy girls.

Now imagine that this Mr. Capitalism Economy got injured on the job. He is rushed to a hospital room and laid quietly upon a bed of white sheets bleeding from a chest wound. The wound is not fatal and with proper treatment Mr. E would soon recover. In fact he is so physically fit and the wound, while serious is not terminal, many rightly believe that Mr. E would eventually recover with no treatment what so ever.

But word soon spreads about Mr. E's unfortunate mishap and there is a new doctor in town that believes that everybody should be treated by his new national health care program. So in rushes Doctors Obama, Biden, Reid and Pelosi to the rescue! Upon arrival those who are presently attending to Mr. E try to explain to the new doctors that they are not needed.

"But," argues Dr. O as he and his cohorts barge into the room, "We are doctors! Therefore we cannot just stand by and do nothing! That would be criminal! In fact if you do not do as I say, this patient may never recover!"

Quickly they set up the Wall Street monitor in order to keep track of Mr. E's vital signs. At the foot of the bed they huddle in a circle as if to put their heads together to decide on the best way to treat their new patient. But unknown to the bystanders their 'treatment' has already been decided. Now they are just arguing over their positions in the room as they begin this 'treatment' of the patient, for none of them want to be the ones who have to stand on the right side of the bed. Unable to compromise they resort to 'rock, paper scissors,' with Drs. B and R losing and Dr. P smugly smirking over her childish victory. After a few minutes they all place their left hands on top of each other's in the center of the circle as Dr. P counts, "One, two, three…" In unison they all throw their left hands up in the air and shout, "CHANGE!" as they break from the huddle to quickly assault the patient.

Now like medieval alchemists they do not clean out the existing wound, close it, nor even apply a pressure bandage, instead they simply throw a soiled towel over the bleeding wound to cover it up. Dr. O supervises the others as Dr. B opens a huge jar of large slimy leaches and spreads them out over Mr. E's torso. Immediately the leaches begin to gorge themselves with the free meals provided by the good doctors.

As the leaches begin to feast Dr. O exclaims, "This is not enough! We must do more if we are to save this patient! These leaches will take too long, Dr. R you may begin."

The smiling Dr. R now brazenly steps forward flashing a large sharp razor. He nods at Dr. P, who is grinning from earmark to earmark, as she straps down Mr. E's arms and legs to the bed. When the limbs are secure the mad Dr. R starts to slash and slice away with unbounded glee to bleed the victim… I mean patient, in order to stop the chest wound from bleeding further. When there is no other place left on Mr. E's body that is safe to cut open without calling it murder, Dr. R steps back, covered in blood.

Dr. O then glances at the Wall Street monitor as it starts to flat line. The Dow Jones is falling rapidly, Nasdaq hovers at near record lows, and the unemployment rate jumps to ten percent! The patient's status is critical! But Dr. O does not panic, the patient may be failing but he still has his trusted monitor. He turns to Dr. P, smiles and calmly states, "It is time."

Upon hearing these words Dr. P almost swoons, she has dreamt of, graved for and waited eight long years for this "time" to finally arrive. Quickly she exists the room, and then from behind a closed door she returns with a large bucket that she places beside the patient's bed.

"Le Docteur O, la graisse de porc est ici!"*

She proudly announces with a lofty, fake European air.

Dr. O asks, "How much is there?"

Dr. P replies with a greedy smile, "787 billion cc's! With another 410 cc's still in the other room! Plus we can make more when it is needed"

"Do it!" Commands Dr. O!

"WAIT!" Cries a voice from the back of the room and a doctor who had been attending Mr. E before these four quacks had arrived now steps forward.

"Dr. O you promised that if we allowed you into this hospital you would not permit any more of this type of treatment!"

"Good Karl, man! This is a crisis. These are extraordinary times! Extreme measures must be taken! You are all cowards! Now step aside!" Dr. O scolded his distracter, then turning once again to his accomplices commanded, "Do it!"

With a joyful exuberance the other three doctors reached into the large bucket with both hands and began flinging its contents everywhere. Amazingly they were quickly to the bottom of the bucket but had gotten very little of the contents on the patient were it was supposed to be needed the most! Within seconds they had retrieved the second bucket of 410 cc's and it too was thrown haphazardly about the room with no positive effects for the now dying patient.

Suddenly a loud bussing emitted from the Wall Street monitor. The patient had flat lined with the Dow falling consecutively since the four quacks had entered the room and the Nasdaq reaching its lowest point since these doctors had first entered med school. When the unemployment rate shot up to twelve percent it was all but over. The four doctors looked at each other and smiled.

Others quickly pushed by these four imposters and rushed to the dying man's side. The wounded old man slowly opened his eyes for the last time while slightly lifting his head to gaze down upon his once hard, handsome and healthy form. There was not one inch of his once proud frame that was not covered by blood from the butchery of the gruesome foursome. Leaches sucked and wiggled around in the gore feasting like frenzied sharks in a sea of blood and flesh, taking all he had but leaving nothing in return.

The old man laid his head back down upon his pillow and thought of his home, America where he had lived so long and prospered. Confused and angry that his people would allow this to happen to him, he repeated the last bewildered words of the fictitious Sand Pebble, Jake Holman, "I was home. What happened? What the hell happened?"

Closing his eyes he slowly raised his bloody right hand, which was taken firmly and lovingly held by a beautiful young nurse. As a tear rolled down his cheek he whispered his last words, "In Deo speramus."**

Standing behind the gathering in the now crowded room the four doctors looked on with cold amusement. Upon hearing the old man's last words Dr. P leaned into Dr. O to scoff, "Not anymore…" and they all chuckled. Smiling they gave each other a sly, smirking glance then turned as one to leave. Just before they reached the door an intern stepped in front of their group. He clearly wore the look of a troubled and frightened young man when he asked, "Dr. O what are we to do now?"

O quickly took on a serious, pious demeanor. He placed his left hand reassuring on the young man's shoulder, looked him squarely in the eyes with a convincing but false concern and solemnly said, "I know these are tough times, and we have many tough times ahead of us. The old man had a long life but it is time for a change. So don't worry young man, I have already made preparations for a relative of Mr. Capitalism Economy to take his place. He will start immediately put it will take some time. His name is Mr. Socialism Economy and I am sure that we will all be even better off with him." Then the foursome walked out the door.

As they walked down the hallway in a joyous mood they continued talking.

Dr B: "A relative?"

Dr. O: "Yeah, the old man's bastard son."

They all laughed.

Dr. O: "Whew that took longer than we expected! He sure was a tough old bird. Now I've got to hurry to get home for the Wednesday night cocktail party. Are any of you going to make it tonight?"

Dr. R: "Afraid not, I've got a lot of threatening calls to make. It seems there are a lot of uptight governors, bank presidents and company CEO's who don't want to take our bailouts because they don't like all the stipulations we have made them sign and agree to follow. But I'll get them under our control one way or the other! "

Dr. O: "Well get it done, if anyone can terrorize the public its Mad Harry. We'll get them all under our control sooner or later, but is sure would be easier if they would just take the damn money! Maybe you can make it next week. How about you B?"

Dr. B: "Naw, sorry Boss. I've got to stop by Home Depot and get some of those day laborers that are always hanging out in the parking lot. Got a lot of gardening to do around the house and a fence that needs painting. I'll be there next week though."

Dr. O: "Heh, heh, you have to love America, cheap illegal labor and when we pass the amnesty bill next month they will still be cheap but will vote Democratic. What a great country we live it. Anybody got a smoke?"

Dr. P: "I can't make it either O. I've had a G5 blocked out for the last two weeks and now that the old man is finally dead I'm taking my dog back to San Fran for a grooming. My baby needs her nails clipped too but I just don't trust these clowns in DC to touch my 'wittle snookems.' Besides the Air Farce has been busting my hump for locking in the G5 for so long so I figure I better go someplace. I'll be back on Friday because some of us are flying up to Mass for a Kerry's party on Saturday."

Dr. O: "Pity P, I always like to see you shake that booty in the conga line. Well good night gang, good work."

All: "Good night Your Holiness."

God Bless and Save America!

Semper Fi,
Mike

(* "Doctor O, the pork grease is here!")

(** "In God We Trust.")

"Copyright 2009.  Michael E. Tank   All rights reserved. No part of this document may be copied, faxed, electronically transmitted, or in any other manner duplicated without express written permission of the author."