Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.
“I hate you fucking diabetics!” screamed Mitt Romney in a message on my answering machine. “I will not rest until I cleanse this nation of you and all your filthy diabetic friends!” There was an audible bang as Romney slammed the phone down on its receiver.
He didn’t leave a return number. His call was not meant as a discussion, but a statement: Mitt Romney wants me and my lazy pancreas to die. He wants all diabetics dead. Our troublesome correspondence began during the New Hampshire debates, when Romney said poor people are to blame for high drug costs, not pharmaceutical companies. I sent him a polite e-mail that night, explaining the ridiculously high cost of my diabetes supplies.
He replied almost instantly: “Don’t e-mail me! You have a disease! Ew!” I sent a reply back, carefully explaining that diabetes is not transferable through computers, only through sexual contact and French kissing. I also explained that I don’t actually have any diabetic friends. We don’t normally hang out in packs. He replied later that night with an almost unintelligible message, obviously written while high on caffeine: “I SEES YOUSE DIABETUSES, HANGINGS OUT IN ABANDON BUILDING SHARING INSULIN!!! STINKS LIKE SUCROSE!!!!”
I received his phone message the next morning. Later that night, Wilford Brimley was attacked in downtown Los Angeles by men carrying golden plates. Egads! Illegally caffeinated Mormons afoot! And near my neighborhood!
Is life more difficult now that Mitt Romney wants me dead? I’d have to say yes. On nights when there aren’t publicly televised debates, and I don’t know Romney’s location, I stay inside and keep watch out my window for strangers. My apartment is one block from the Scientology Center, and while that tends to keep the Mormons away, Romney now had a taste for blood, and mine has more sugar in it than a normal person, making it more delicious.
My friend came over yesterday and informed me that Romney’s stance on healthcare isn’t actually to cleanse the nation of diabetics. “Romney is not a diabetic Hitler,” my friend said. “He is not a Hitler of diabetic proportions. He just blamed poor people because when people without insurance get sick, the cost of insurance and drugs goes–”
Before my friend could finish his speech, my pager went off. This was odd, since I haven’t used a pager since 1994. I’ve always kept mine around, just in case hot ladies I met in 1994 attempt to contact me. But this message was from Romney. It read, “Diabetes, diabetes, I know how to kill your species . . . sugar packets.”
Bastard! How did Romney know my pager number? I don’t even know my pager number! I had forgotten it years ago. I suppose it makes sense that Romney spends his money attaining the secrets of others, like old pager numbers. With a net worth of $250 million and a religion that doesn’t allow him to spend it on booze or cigarettes, the man has to spend it on something.
I hate the primaries so much, and not just because they’re boring and the debates block out reruns of Wheel of Fortune, which I enjoy. I hate them because if Romney doesn’t become president, he will surely spend every free moment hunting me down to murder me for being a drain on America’s healthcare system. But if Romney does become president, he will make all of us diabetics live on a small, deserted island 12 miles off the shores of Cape Cod.
I know this because Romney just told me in a text message. Damn you, Romney! Damn you to hell! I’ll give you diabetes if it’s the last thing I do!