(English translation of a fossilized office-cubicle poster from 12th century Spain.)
Allow me to regale you with a brief story of Health Center uselessness. It occurs in two separate and distinct parts, but they dovetail beautifully into a complex web of ineptitude.
Phase one: I attended to my lack of immunity by allowing the immunity woman to stab me repeatedly with metal rods. Since I have health insurance that is provided specifically by Emory, hence the name ‘Emory Health Insurance,’ one would think that my bill for said stabbings would be forwarded to my insurance regardless of whether or not I had my insurance card and information with me. One would be wrong if one were to think that.
Instead, they decided to ridicule my assumption by not only sending the bill directly to me (ignoring the very concept of health insurance all-together), but by sending the bill to some phatasm named “Jermey” who lives at some fictional address with an additional “4″ somewhere on a street named “Dolley Drive.”
Apparently, not only is it not safe to assume that they will forward your bill to the appropriate insurance type place, it’s not even safe to assume that they can properly spell the roughly three different campus addresses (that they must be requested to type no less that 400 times per day).
Assumptions, of any variety, are clearly not safe.
Phase two: A scant two weeks after my initial stabbings, I attempted to make an appointment for additional stabbings of the immunity woman, lest I should wither and die despite my newfound immuno-scars. I attempted to make said appointment with the fabulous new technological item known as “Med-Buddy U.” (This is, in fact, a glorious name, as I do now feel, deep down, that he is and always has been my ‘buddy.’ I do so miss him even as we speak….)
I clacked away at my click-board, shot off my request through the electronic aether, and waited patiently for a reply. None ever came.
Apparently, despite the fact that my good buddy had done his job as well as any little electronic buddy ever could, the drooling visage of human ineptitude was waiting right on the other side. Online, the response was “appointment scheduled.” This response was only visible by going all the way back to my buddy, and clicking on ‘previous requests.’ At no point was I emailed, called, sent an official document, or screamed at by special ’messenger lemurs.’ Not even my good buddy Med Buddy was provided with an actual ‘time-of-appointment.’
So, despite the fact that an appointment was made, no one actually bothered to tell me when or where or with whom it was. For all I knew, it could’ve been an appointment for flower arranging on Mars with Ethel the jovial Martian.
Two uses of the black talk-rod later, and I’ve straightened everything out for myself.
As it turns out, however, there was nothing whatsoever I could do for them to help cease their drooling… I hope they wear plastic shoes.
——
Take yourself a gander at the posting times of each of my last two posts. This one ends in “42″ (which I don’t have to explain the significance of to Douglas Adams, thankfully, because it’s difficult to explain significance to a dead man), and the other is all ones (11:11).
Quite clearly I am in tune with the secret and ineffable truth of the universe right now.
This was a good post. If not for the “black talk-rod” (which sounds icky) it might have surpassed the heater/air-conditioner story as my favorite Jeremy blog.
I want a Med-Buddy… I feel sad without my Med-Buddy. (Why does that make me think of cabbage patch kids?)
Actually, the “black talk-rod” was the one part I wasn’t happy with either. I felt compelled to put it in there, but I thought it was out of place every single time that I looked back at it.
Oh well.
I’d offer you my Med-Buddy, but then I would be buddy-less. And what is a man without his buddy?