The following is my one-act play dramatizing DOGE’s foray into healthcare (which, let’s face it, is just a matter of time).
Curtain up.
On a barren stage, we open on a doctor’s office. The office is ramshackle and filthy.
The doctor, about 19 years old, looks at an x-ray. He is dressed in a white lab coat and wears one of those ridiculous head-reflector mirrors from the 1950s.
The patient sits on the examination table. He is a middle-aged man and is quite nervous.
Finally, the doctor turns, and with an overly confident smirk, he addresses the patient.
Doctor: Well, you have cancer. At least, I think you do. Yeah, let’s just assume that.
Patient: This is terrible. What do I do?
Doctor: Don’t worry. We’re going to start treatment immediately. You’ll be better than new by the time I’m done with you.
Patient: Will this involve a through exam? A biopsy? A well-formulated treatment plan?
Doctor: No, we’re just going to start chopping off limbs and yanking out organs. I’m sure we’ll get the cancer that way. If there even is cancer.
Patient: What? Shouldn’t you examine my body and identify the source of the disease?
Doctor: Who has the time or money for a biopsy? Whatever that is. No, we have to move fast and break things.
Patient: Including my body?
Doctor: Yes, if need be. But it will all be worth it.
Patient: When?
Doctor: Sometime. In the future. Down the road. Eventually.
Patient: Wait a minute. Are you even a doctor?
Doctor: Strictly speaking, no. But you don’t need someone with a fancy degree from some left-wing college. Or someone who has devoted years of their life to medicine and healthcare. You need an outsider. A rebel.
Patient: I would prefer an expert trained in this discipline who has professional knowledge and experience.
Doctor: That’s elitist.
Patient: I don’t feel comfortable doing this.
Doctor: Too bad. You’re booked for surgery in five minutes.
Patient: But you’re making decisions that could destroy my life without any considerations of whether I want this or not. And as it turns out, I don’t want it.
Doctor: We told you we would do this.
Patient: No you didn’t.
Doctor: Well, we implied it. And you might not have agreed to let us slice open your body if we told you this up front.
Patient: Of course I wouldn’t have agreed.
Doctor: See? That’s why we didn’t tell you.
The doctor gestures to the wings, and two burley orderlies rush in and strap the patient to the table. The patient screams.
Patient: But you’re just some arrogant teenager who has no idea what he’s doing.
The doctor forces the anesthesia mask on the patient.
Doctor: Just shush. It’s much more efficient this way.
The patient passes out. The burley orderlies step to the side. The doctor picks up a scalpel in one hand, and pulls out his phone with the other. He turns to the anesthetized patient.
Doctor: I’m going to live-tweet this shit.
The doctor makes an incision.
Curtain down.
