I own a Cancer Protection insurance policy. No shit. It will give me a considerable sum of money in the event that I find myself ailed with any form of Cancer known to man. Any, that is, except those pesky ones that people actually get sick from.

I’m not kidding. The exemptions clause on my policy is not only bigger than the rest of the contract. It makes “War and Peace” look like the puny, trifling pamphlet that it really is. It mocks the Encyclopaedia Britannica with derisive superiority whilst sitting on its throne and sniffing coke off the tits of a ten-dollar hooker. This clause is spread across several pages because, were it all written down on the same piece of paper, it would undoubtedly create a gravity well, collapse into itself, become a new universe and eventually spawn a civilisation of purple flying monkeys who would develop space travel, invade Earth and sodomize all of humanity (which, although presenting the undeniably amusing prospect of bunghole rape-age of whatever lawyer came up with said document, would —in all likelihood— not be fun).

But now for the 1 million dollar question: Why do I own this insurance? — Indeed, why do I pay a monthly fee upwards of 10 american dollars for it?

If you don’t know the answer to that, dear reader, you are surely not a regular, so allow me to introduce myself: My name is Sergio, and I am an idiot.

The reason that I own this policy, is that, put in simple and elegant terms, I have the strong, determined volition of chocolate pudding. On acid.

The lecherous, ass-raping, mother-fucking motherfuckers over at ACE Insurance Company of North America (mexican branch) called me about a year ago to let me know that American Express had the forethought and good judgement of violating my customer agreement in order to provide them with all of my data for this incredibly nifty new medical insurance against Cancer and other stuff (I take it that the other stuff provides coverage against earth-faring aquatic sea monster attack in the event of Global Marine uprising led by Aquaman, Namor or some other self-appointed king of the Sea — on Sundays only). And they were practically GIVING IT AWAY!

There is a very good reason for the existence of customer information non-disclosure clauses. It is to protect blabbing, drooling idiots from themselves. It is a very worthy reason. Those of you who were anointed —whether by divine hand or genetic lottery— with the gift of Common Sense should, like Superman, use that mighty power for good. You should strive to use it in the help and defense of those of us who, alas, are not so fortunate! I am sorry to say that in this respect, YOU FAILED ME.

The conversation between the salesperson (henceforth known as the Hellspawn) and me went more or less like this:

HS: Mister Villarreal! I have here your credit card number, home address and other personal information. I just need your confirmation to fit you with our Cancer Insurance Policy.
SV: Umm… no, I don’t really…
HS: Need I remind you that I have your home address?
SV: But, really! I don’t…
HS: (in hellish guttural shriek that promises to rain death upon the living) OH, BUT YOU WILL BUY IT, BITCH! YOU WILL BUY IT AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!!!
SV: (in full battle cry mode — otherwise known as sounding like a 5 year old scared to death girl) Aaaanngghh!! Leave me alone! Yes! Yes I want it! just leave me aloooone!!
HS: That is all we needed. You will be receiving your policy… soon (insert hellish laughter here)

You should be ashamed of yourselves.

I recently waged a fierce, bloody and drawn out battle to get rid of this insurance policy. I am thirsty, wounded and mentally exhausted from it, and I’m still not sure if the dragon was slain. More on this later.

— sergio on December 27, 2004