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Friday, October 31, 2008
John McCane 2008
P.O. Box 16118
Arlington, VA 22215

Dear Senator McCane,

     I want my quarter back!

     I know--you’re saying, “But Carl, my friend, Sarah Palin says she’s going to donate her $150,000 worth of Sachs and Nieman Marcus clothes to charity right after she’s elected president in 2012!”

    That’s not my point, sir.  I can sum up the reason I want you to refund the quarter I contributed to your campaign in one word, and here it is:

     Last year I had my appendix out.

     Now you’re saying, “My friend, under my health care plan, you’ll get a $5000 tax credit.  So if you’re paying $12000 for your health care now, with my tax credit, you’ll only be paying $7000!  With that kind of savings, why should I give you your quarter back?”

     And I say to you, don’t be such a hothead!  Here’s why I want my quarter back:

     When my appendix burst, I was in terrible pain!  My friend, you don’t know what real pain is till you’ve had your appendix burst!  I was in so much pain, it qualified me to be president!  

     My wife, Viola, rushed me to the hospital and while I lay moaning in the examining room, you can imagine my horror when Dr. Black walked in and he was... how should I say it?  He was... well... black!

     “I’m not having a black man operate on me!” I cried.  “He’s not like me!  For all I know, he could be a Muslim!  Or a terrorist!  Or a socialist!”

     “That’s perfectly understandable, Mr. Estrada,” said Dr. Black.  (He sounded more like Sir Lawrence Olivier than Al Sharpton.)  “Given your socio-economic orientation and your rigidly insular world view, you may be more comfortable with a physician with whom you share more superficial characteristics.”

     Not only is he a Terrorist Muslim Socialist, I thought.  He’s an elitist, too!

     So, Dr. Black left, and a few minutes later, Dr. White came in, and I breathed a big sigh of relief.  This guy was more what a doctor should look like--a Marcus Welby type.  He had thin white hair, he looked experienced, and I was glad to see he was white!  He also seemed... how should I say this?  He seemed... really... well... old!  

     Dr. White held out his liver-spotted hand to shake mine, but I noticed he didn’t need me to shake his hand--it was already shaking!  He fumbled through his medicine bag and it fell to the floor.  That’s when I saw the hacksaw fall out!

    “Not to worry, my friend,” smiled Dr. White.  “I brought us the best whiskey and I’ll give you a bullet to bite on, too.

     “And,” he continued, “if I pass out before you do, I’ll leave the operation to my able assistant, Dixie the Receptionist.”

     Just then, Dixie the Receptionist bounced in with a 100 megawatt smile that would drain the energy out of an entire city!  The ensemble was a simple yet dazzling black on black haute couture from the autumn line of Gianfranco Ferre.  The shoes sporting six inch stilletos were from Gucci.  The eyewear was a smart compliment from the collection of Dolce Gabbana. The fragrance was Eau de Moose.

     Dixie the Receptionist vigorously shook my hand in both of hers and gave me a big wink.  “Don’tcha worry,” she beamed.  “Me an’ Dr. White here, we’ll getcha fixed up in no time!  And if the geezer can’t do ‘er, well, I don’t mind takin’ yer ol’ appendix out cuz my reception desk is right down the hall from the operatin’ room, so I’ve had lots of experience!  You betcha!”

     That was when I passed out and I didn’t wake up until after the operation was over.  My wife, Viola, told me she had decided behind my back (!) to let Dr. Black operate.  And guess what?  He did a great job!  For the next week, teams of interns were coming in to inspect my incision.  They would scratch their chins and nod their heads and whisper, “Hmm... That Dr. Black is a master.  Maybe someday, a little of his magic will wear off on me.”

     I don’t remember how I got started on this story about my appendix, but I have a confession to make.  This is really hard for me to say, my friend, so I’ll give you some hints:

Hint #1:  I’ve never voted for a Democrat in my life (except in 2004 when God made me do it.  BTW--Did you know God sounds just like Aretha Franklin?)

Hint #2:  I’ve never voted for a black person either.

Hint #3:  I want my quarter back.

Hint #4:  I love My President more than life itself, and I’ve been his biggest fan and his most loyal soldier for eight years, but I have to admit, He’s sort of driven the car into a ditch.  

     And your way of getting us out of the ditch is to keep gunning the engine!  And when that doesn’t work, take a sledge hammer to it!

     That’s my way, too!  And the whole time I’m gunning the engine and bashing the car with a sledge hammer, Viola’s yelling at me, “Call Triple A, Carl!  Call Triple A!”

     Which is what I always end up doing, and then they tow what’s left of my car out of the ditch.  

     But this time, my friend, I’ve decided to call Triple A first.

Hint #5:  Viola says if Obama loses, she’s going to Canada for good, and I can’t come.

     Have you figured out my confession yet?  Well, here it is:  I, Carl the Grocer, have voted early and I voted for Barack Obama.

     There you have it.  He’s not just like me, but maybe that’s a good thing.  This time I’ll try a president who’s smarter than me.   Who knows?  Maybe that’s been the problem!

Carl “The Grocer” Estrada



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