The Invisible Hospital of White Privilege

Friday evenings in the Badwulf household are a time for pounding back liquor, gorging on fatty meats, and displays of sexual excess. My spiritual beliefs, the moral codes I live by, and the great lives I study as role models all have a common theme: Set, the Snake God. So, Friday night, when the pagan goddess Frigg has rulership over the TV remote, the CD library, and the keys to the lockable sex toys, we gather for fun and frolic. Refreshment, as the free masons say. But not every whiskey fueled Friday evening whoop up is a succession of degenerate pleasures. Heck no. The Human Condition is specific to us all. One of my guests, my good friend the Subversive Consumer, was suddenly seized with hiccups. I looked up at him over my cards (three kings and the ten of diamonds) and was filled with concern. I care. I felt the need for a diversion. 'Let us go to the hospital!' I suggested.

Which hospital? Unlike cultures, all Hospitals in Ontario are not the same. If you call an ambulance, you have no control over which crappy hospital your carcass is hauled to. This is like asking some wog taxi driver for a place to eat. This is a recipe for getting worms. So, in Ontario, you arrange your own ride to the better hospital in the area. The hospital the white people go to. The best hospital. Let the darkies, the queers, and the addicts go to Auschwitz Memorial Hospital for medical experiments at the understaffed hands of employment equity buffoons. One of the charter members of the cult of Set, the Snake God is a staff Astrologer at one of the Invisible Hospitals of White Privilege in the Greater Toronto Area, the B.J.Vorster Memorial Hospital, which is located in Guelph. He was giving out some fast track access passes for hospital emergency rooms and suggested (in a loud and drunk way) as we left to find transport that we go to his hospital.

How to get there? One of the neat things in the invisible knapsack of white privilege is the Invisible Potato Masher of avoiding dirty work. The hiccuping Subversive Consumer had gorged down a lot of gin, vermouth, and herring. If he barfed, I did not want him barfing all over my car. Let his barfing be someone else's problem. That barf would have a lot of herring in the mix. Ugh. I used my universal car door opener to find a suitable ride in the parking lot next to the temple of Set, the Snake God. This parking lot is for a community center where wogs and darkies go to acquire additional job skills so they can work for slave wages in the racist shit hole that is Canada. There were only crappy domestic (union made) cars in the parking lot, unlike my sleek escape car (which has a leather interior that would react poorly to herring vomit in gin sauce). Oh well. I selected one that belonged to an aspiring rap artist, seeking to turn his life around. I threw the baby seat out, to make room. I threw out the baby bag, and all that other baby junk. The Subversive Consumer, his delicate tummy disturbed by the transition from warm indoors to cold outdoors, promptly barfed into a pair of ladies boots. The stench of half digested herring filled the car. I rolled down the windows and put the heat on full blast. Global Warming be Damned. So, off we roared into the darkness to the hospital. I was drunk, and drove dangerously. I only remembered to turn on my head lights after I cut off the public transit bus at the bus stop in front of the Homeless Shelter in Guelph.

I had called ahead to the hospital so the concierge showed us directly to our suite. There is never any waiting for white people at the Invisible Hospital of White Privilege. A cup of tea was steaming hot and waiting for me; and a team of three attended to the hiccuping Subversive Consumer. While he was being hooked up to IV, monitors, and was given a foot rub by an intern, I wondered about the corrosive properties of herring based stomach acid. When we had abandoned the car we had jacked, it appeared that this compound was capable of dissolving plastic upholstery and etching glass. Certainly the smell would frighten off a zombie. Not that a zombie could see through windows smeared with barf. I filed this question as a problem for another time.

The hiccuping Subversive Consumer soon felt better. He told me that he was talking to Jesus. I was halfway through the apple strudel which room service had brought in on the dessert cart. It was good, but not that good. Then I saw that the patient was hooked up to the Elvis9000 Self-Medication machine. I do not know the pharmacology of the blend of opiates that was being pumped into his veins (along with sterile saline, minerals, nutrients, and vitamins), but he appeared content. These things are only possible at the Invisible Hospital of White Privilege, where there is no waiting, staff on hand, equipment, and a full arsenal of the latest drugs and medications.

I went home. The hiccuping Subversive Consumer is relaxed, with access to state of the art medical care. A hospital limousine will bring him home when he is ready. The jacked car etched by corrosive barf has been towed away. And I am filled with contentment at the state of Invisible White Privilege in Ontario today. If I had to share the medical system with the never workers, I think I would be planning bloody rebellion.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.