Here’s a quote from Rush Limbaugh the other day:

“I’ll just tell you this, if this passes and it’s five years from now and all that stuff gets implemented — I am leaving the country. I’ll go to Costa Rica.”

And that is the best reason to now pass a healthcare bill, so we can say adios to this ignorant, racist jackass. Of course, since he’s a habitual liar too, he’s probably not going anywhere.

Any chance you could take Glenn Beck with you?

Great Scott. My plan from last night appears to have gone awry. At least, the most important part of that plan. Granted, a woman with a satisfied smile is currently snoozing in my emperor-sized bed. However, she is not Heather Graham.

No. Much to my horror, it appears to be Demaine’s wife, Maude. And let me assure you: under no circumstances can Maude be considered attractive. Unless a feminine version of me, with the addition of a wispy mustache and a ring of warts under the left eye, is the sort of thing that gets you hot under the collar.

However, this isn’t the worst part. Well, actually it is, but it’s compounded by another factor. You see, Demaine’s wealth dwarfs even my own and is matched only by his inexplicable love for the she-beast in my bedroom. Which means that I’ll be ruined if he catches wind of this cuckoldry. Ruined!

In any case, it’s time for action. Montgomery is currently giving her an injection of the same military-grade sedative used to kill Michael Jackson so as to ensure that she doesn’t awaken. Then we’ll roll her up in an enormous Persian rug, head over to Demaine’s, and toss her out of the limousine as we drive slowly past the front gates.

After that, I’ll have to go to the hospital. Not to be tested for diseases, but simply because I still have a very painful erection that’s starting to result in dizziness and loss of vision — a clear sign that it’s been around for more than four hours. Oh well. I suppose that will teach me to mix large quantities of Viagra, OxyContin and alcohol in the future. At least until I’m positive that the woman I’ll be bedding is worth the trouble. Toodle-oo.

“You so much as jiggle yer belly and I’m-a squeezing this trigger, fatboy! Y’hear me?”

This was said by a wart-and-hair-covered hillbilly who appeared to be brandishing a shotgun. I couldn’t be sure though; I had just awoken and could barely see a thing through my sleep-encrusted eyes. Moreover, I was suffering from the absolute worst hangover of my life, and wasn’t entirely positive that I wasn’t hallucinating the situation.

“Please,” I croaked, “keep it down. There’s no need to shout.”

“I’ll shout all I goddamn want, boy! You decide to sack out in a man’s carport, you damn well better expect to get shouted at! Shit, I’ve half a mind to curb-stomp your disgustin’ ass! Now get on up or Ol’ Betsy here’ll make sure you stay down for good!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t do anything brash.” I slowly pushed myself up… which is when I realized that I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or anything below the waist for that matter. In fact, the only thing I had on was a three-sizes-too-small T-shirt emblazoned with a Corvette logo.

“Goddamn son, you are one sorry sight! Now you just go ahead and get them flabby arms of yers up while I call for the police.”

“Police? I don’t think…”

“Shut the fuck up!” my captor shouted, then turned slightly towards the hovel that presumably passed for his home. “Hey Dave! Get yer ass on out here! And bring that there portable phone with you!”

A moment later, this Dave character came shuffling out through a screened door. Much to my surprise, it was none other than Skynyrd Dave — the illicit OxyContin supplier whom I had met in the parking lot of McDonald’s last month. I say without an ounce of hyperbole that I had never been happier to see a poor person.

“What in the hell’s going on out here, Doug?” Skynyrd Dave asked. Then, upon seeing me: “Shit. Oz, is that you?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’ve told you before: call me Mr. Carver.”

“Wait a second,” said Doug. “You two know each other?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Skynyrd Dave confirmed. “He’s one of my best customers. What are you doing pointing a shotgun at him?”

“I found him passed out here in the carport. And he ain’t wearing no pants.”

“Huh. Yeah, where are your pants, Oz? I mean, Mr. Carver?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone must have stolen them. My wallet too, obviously. But if one of you could give me a ride home, I’ll gladly reimburse you for your troubles once we get there.”

Thirty minutes later, I was soaking in a hot tub and chasing the hair of the dog with a pitcher of Bloody Marys at my palatial estate. Still, quite the adventure. I’ll probably never know how I wound up in that carport, and I don’t expect to see my still-missing Hummer again, but one thing’s for certain: whether he had anything to do with it or not, I’m firing Luis first thing Monday morning. There’s simply too much cheap Mexican labor available in this country to ever give one of them the benefit of the doubt.

As mentioned earlier, I finally had that appointment with Doc Stinebrau this morning. You know, to get some boils lanced on my ass and to ensure that my prostate isn’t cancer-ridden. It went about as well as can be expected, given that I weigh 350 pounds and subsist on a near-exclusive diet of red meat and liquor.

“So what’s the diagnosis, Doc?” I asked as he pored over my test results.

“Well, you continue to defy everything I know about medicine, Oz. And I’ve told you before — don’t call me ‘Doc.’”

“At the rates you charge? I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.”

Stinebrau groaned and lit another cigarette. Sure it’s strange for a doctor in this day and age to smoke at all, much less while seeing patients, but that’s part of his allure as far as I’m concerned.

“Whatever,” he said, following a brief, violent coughing spasm. “You know you should be dead, right?”

“Nonsense. My heart feels like it’s Keith Moon’s personal bass drum.”

“That’s part of the problem. Not to mention the fact that you might as well have redwood roots for arteries. Don’t get me started on your veins, either. I’ve seen copper wiring with better circulation.”

“Alright, I…”

“And when was the last time you ate a goddamn green vegetable, you fat tub of goo?”

“…didn’t come here for insults. Just tell me what new pills I need to start popping and I’ll be on my way.”

“Jesus, you rich bastards and your idiotic belief in your own invincibility,” he said, scrawling out a dozen or so prescriptions. “Here, take these. And don’t call me in the morning! I’d rather spend my time with patients who actually care about their health.”

“If they cared about that, they wouldn’t be seeing the Joe Camel of the medical world.”

He glared balefully, stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

“You might have a point there,” he conceded. “Still, get the fuck out. We’re done.”

“Hold on — what about my prostate?”

“It’s as fine as can be expected. Stop drinking so much and maybe you’ll stop pissing yourself. Or not. What do I care?”

“Okay, I… wait just a second. What are you trying to pull here?”

“Jesus. What now?”

“I don’t see the usual script for my ‘back pain medication’ in this stack. Are you holding out on me, Stinebrau?”

“Holy shit. It never ends with you, does it?”

“No. And don’t forget the zeroes at the end of that Oxy order, either. I’m in a lot of pain, you know. Might as well throw in some of those boner pills while you’re at it, too.”

After paying his exorbitant bill and saying a number of very crude things to his secretary, I sped off to find the nearest pharmacy, nearly running over a homeless woman in the process. Good thing for her that she was spry enough to jump out of the way in time; there would’ve been no witnesses, and I’m not the type to leave a note in such situations.

White men have the highest death rates from unintentional opioid poisoning, according to the Ohio Department of Health. The Dayton Daily News reports that Montgomery County, Ohio has the highest rate of accidental prescription drug overdose deaths in the state, which itself has a death rate higher than the national average.

Read Watchdog’s prior coverage of Ohio’s Oxy problem here, here, and here.

The OxyContin addiction problem has become so widespread in Manitoba, Canada that treatment programs are being overrun with patients seeking treatment, the Winnipeg Sun reports. Eighty percent of 140 people on the waiting list of one treatment center’s methadone intervention and needle exchange program, which treats opiate addicts, are hooked on Oxy, the paper reports. Many of the addicts are described as young people who come from intact families in the suburbs, the paper says.

More coverage of Canada’s growing Oxy problem can be found here.

A recent study in Utah may provide a startling insight in to what may be a national trend. As reported by Health Day, a startling 97 percent of the study’s individuals who stated having taken opioid pain medicine not prescribed to them over the past year, had gotten the drug from a friend or relative who had a prescription. In most cases the drug was handed over willingly to the individual who reported illegally using or abusing opioid painkillers, such as Oxycontin or Vicodin.

The study, which was published in the February 19th issue of the U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, also alarmingly found that one in five Utah residents have at least one prescription for opioid painkillers. The majority of patients (71 percent) keep their leftover medication, stating that they paid for them and may need them again.

According to the report, 85.2 percent of the people who used an opioid without a prescription said it was given to them by someone who did, while only 9.8 percent said they took the drug without the knowledge or permission of the owner. And only 4.1 percent said they bought the drug. This study also revealed that deaths in Utah resulting from poisoning by prescription painkillers increased 600 percent from 1999 to 2007.

One warning the research team issued was that holding on to unused prescription medications could result in fatal overdoses, especially for people who aren’t prescribed the drugs. And that the excess of pills makes the possibility of misuse and abuse more likely. The team suggested throwing out leftover opioids by mixing the pills in a separate bag with something undesirable and then throwing the bottle out separately with any identifying information crossed out.

The researchers hope that the study will educate both physicians and the public about the dangers of unused prescription painkillers, and encourage doctors to be more cautious in prescribing and the public more willing to throw out unused prescription medications and to not share prescriptions with other.