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I Want to Hit the Insurance Payout Lottery

Guest Editorial by Paul Oglivie,
expectant recipient

For over three decades I've been working like a pock-marked Hebrew slave in a series of really lousy jobs. I used to buy into the line of crap they feed you about saving for retirement and investing in home equity and letting professionals handle your money and all that jazz.

But here I am, 49 years old, with an upside-down mortgage and $112 in my checking account. I've got a dozen bill collectors calling every number they can link to me, and my credit score is lower than my blood pressure.

So what I'm really waiting for is what I call the Great Insurance Payout Lottery.

Now, I'm not talking some kind of faked slip-and-fall in the grocery to collect a measly $20 grand from an insurance company that wants to settle a bullshit claim. Besides, I hear they're pretty good about sniffing out insurance fraud, and I'm too old to be worrying about getting shanked or raped in a state prison, you dig?

No, what I mean is this: I'm waiting for the day some drunk rich fucker in a Lexus runs a red light and smashes into me and my 1989 Toyota. KER-fucking-BLAM! I'm talking full body cast kind of accident, where I'm signing papers with a green marker that I have to hold with my teeth because my arms and hands are broken, and I'm drooling all over the lawsuit papers, and some 21-year-old nurse has to change my bedpan and wash my bunghole every eight hours.

THAT kind of deal.

Sure, I'd be in traction for six months, and it would be a slow road back to normalcy, and my wife would probably leave me for my ex-boss since I'd be whacked out on Oxycontin and would be calling her all sorts of mean names, since my broken pelvis made sex impossible for the year I was in recovery and I turned bitter and broken, and in the meantime I'd have to file bankruptcy for the hospital bills and home health aides and shit.

But after all that bullshit, I would win my lawsuit, net a cool six million dollars, and I'd be on fucking Easy Street, you know what I mean? And I could by all the fucking Oxycontin I wanted, and if I got tired of the addiction, I could buy the whole fucking inpatient detox joint.

So hurry up, Mr. Maximum Liability Coverage: my clock is ticking here.

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