The Canadian Medicare System December 18, 2002 There swashbuckling old archeologist stumbles upon a trail of zombies walking to the delivery door, these mummies are wrapped in computer paper with the results of the numerous tests conducted on each one. He raises the last croissant and breaks it in two gently mumbling what priests normally utter in the penultimate stage of a celebration for His rising, he spreads it among the zombies to silence these stinkies, and the zombies suffer great convulsions till they turn into stone. Despite his diploma, despite his voluminous data, despite his dissertation that earned him an A+ grade, the zombies refused to get healed and get on with life. The archeologist had pointed out that the lab technicians, the technology used as well as the glassware, as well as the computers, and most of all the hospital beds, and the paper that wrap the zombies, were all homemade, them zombies refuse to believe. The zombies want to call in whiteclothed healers who dont take money from the governement, and accept payments from patients. Another thing: The zombies want to take more pills that were laced with honey, because "sugar makes the medicine go down", according to the pharmacist, that's what the zombies say; They insist that if the pharmacist will have the way, they will get well but they are not sure why sugar will cost more for the city hall, and why it is made from material not from the city. But nevertheless, the archeologist has fixed the problem by handing the zombies the last croissant; he told them they that they were made of homemade flour and that they were laced with aspartame, the arrogant aspect of the plant ego, but as sweet as sugar and costs not that much on the pocket. Now the zombies will wait for another millenium before they spring out of their caskets, made especially by the city for their most beloved citizens.
Copyright 2002. All rights reserved.
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