“Congress just allowed the Children’s Health Insurance Program, which provided low-cost health insurance to 9 million children, to expire.” — Washington Post, 10/1/17
May you all catch drug-resistant pinworms from the hands of an untreated child who scratched their ass and didn’t wash up before shaking your hands for a photo op at the hometown Homecoming parade. May you scratch your own ass but never find relief. May you be driven mad by the unscratchable itch of your ass.
May your next taxpayer-funded luxury cruise be stricken with norovirus brought on board by a preschooler, and may you bring it home and keep reinfecting yourself and may your toilets overflow on the day your housekeeper is off.
May you get lice, even in your hairpiece.
May the mumps virus mutate inside the body of a child who could not afford vaccines and may that virus now only affect rich white men who vote against health care and may your face and testes be perpetually swollen.
May a woman who lost her CHIP-funded prenatal coverage be rushing to the hospital for delivery and may her water break and splash all over your fine Brooks Brothers shoes. May her waters be stained with meconium. May her baby be healthy despite the meconium but may your shoes forever smell like the shit of a preborn child.
May you develop a ringing in your ears and may that ringing sound like the screams of a three-year-old with an ear infection.
May you think you have finally vanquished the norovirus and may you take your side piece out for Taco Tuesday and may you order the spiciest carnitas and may your norovirus return with such a vengeance that you don’t make it to the restroom and may it burn from every hole.
May every baby you hug on the campaign trail vomit milk down the collar of your shirt.
May you develop impetigo around your mouth and may your side piece be so disgusted that she/he leaves you and may you only ever have sex with your wife for the rest of your days.
May you live to an old age and in that old age may you wear diapers, and may you develop thrush in your diaper region, and may the person in charge of schmearing A&D ointment on your rash be an adult whose childhood healthcare you once took away and may they look at the A&D and your shiny red rump and shrug and donate the A&D to a women’s shelter.
May your afterlife be the waiting room at a busy pediatrician’s office and may your only entertainment be those toys where you move the beads around the wire. May it be the sick waiting room. May the beads be covered in snot. May you stay there for all eternity.