I recently wrote a column about a few feeble attempts by minor leaguers of the Rabid Right to make a political point about the health care debate out of actress Natasha Richardson’s death in a Canada skiing accident. It got some response that was interesting, to put it mildly.
One kind e-mail correspondent informed me that her death “had nothing to do with her initially refusing medical care.”
Oh.
So . . . if she’d gotten treatment right away, she’d still be dead? A fascinating take on subdural hematoma, but I got a C in biology, so let’s move on.
She was taken, this correspondent informs us, to a hospital without a neurologist or MRI facilities – something we know could never happen here – and wasn’t within access of helicopter transport, which I presume is a universal amenity for American trauma patients. (Especially here in Georgia, where the fatality rate from trauma cases dwarfs the national average.)
Finally, I’m informed that “asking somebody named ‘Dusty’ to be rational on a subject probably is asking a bit too much.”
That might not be the first time my nickname has been offered as evidence in an observation about rational debate, but it’s definitely the first one I remember.
Then there’s the guy who said I could “continue to argue for the federal government getting more involved with health care all you want” -- which I might ultimately
decide to do, but am at a loss to determine when and where I might have done so already.Maybe he read the column backward and got the subliminal satanic messages.
He also offers this: “Why a small-town Southerner has gone so big-time liberal will always be a mystery to me.”
It must have happened in the Sixties, when They took prayer out of schools and invented sex at Woodstock.
