“You see these guys walking out with air conditioners with refrigerators on their back, the craziest thing. And the police aren’t allowed to do their job… if you had one day, like one real rough, nasty day… if you had one really violent day…one rough hour, and I mean real rough. The word will get out, and it will end immediately.” — Donald Trump speaking at a campaign rally in Pennsylvania.
Excuse me, Mr. Trump? I know you don’t usually take questions from the audience at these rallies, but seeing as how we’re deep into hour four, and you haven’t landed the plane on a single sentence, you’ve started in, well, quite a spell, I’m hoping exceptions might be made.
It’s just that, sir, I have a quick question about The Purge you’re proposing. Now, don’t you get me wrong, it all sounds GREAT. Suggesting a day of unrestrained nationwide looting and murdering as a response to scattered appliance theft sounds like the right move for sure. We can’t have law and order without the temporary removal of all laws to bring about a police state. Makes total sense. I guess I was just hoping to hear a little more detail on the logistics.
For starters, I’m wondering how all this will work on the back end. In the 2013 horror movie franchise of the same name on which your publicly stated proposal is directly lifted, the federal government suspends all police, fire, and emergency services for twelve hours. Would that include telehealth visits? I understand the good sense behind shutting down all the hospitals and letting us all have at each other, sure, sure. But what if I happen to be bothered by seasonal allergies that day, or my bloody leg stump gnawed off by a pack of feral divorced dads during the early hours of The Purge shows signs of infection? Seems easy enough for a doctor to pop on and prescribe me something on a secure video chat from his compound’s panic room.
Speaking of, will I have to meet my family deductible before I’m 70 percent covered for injuries sustained when my ex, Ronald, throws battery acid in my face? No judgment—I know he would only do that as a civic duty to help bring about your sensible vision of national peace and respect for local law enforcement. But it’s always helpful to know in advance if we’re talking small copay or big GoFundMe, you know? God, I just love this country so much. Land of the free. Land of the free.
While we’re on the topic, I haven’t heard you touch on specific health category policies. When I limp into the hospital with gaping machete wounds sustained during this Purge, will I still need a referral from my primary care doctor to see a specialist? What I mean is, if I drag my seeping, almost lifeless husk of a body into the internist’s office because my neighbor finally gets his visceral, violent revenge on me for using my leafblower a little too much in the mornings, do I need to call my regular PCP first to be able to schedule with the only doctor skilled enough to staunch the endless, dark blood pooling from my spleen onto the pavement?
Also, what about my elderly parents, who are on Medicaid? Will it change how they’re fixed or billed for post-Purge visits? Is there a maximum number of visits they’re covered for, or does the doctor need to get all the buckshot the HOA president sprays into my mom’s scalp at the first visit? She really can’t afford to pay much out of pocket after she sent her campaign donation to you last month. She’s on a fixed income, and we didn’t budget for this—or inflation. Thanks, Obama.
I can tell you’re really busy sticking it to anyone you feel has ever wronged you, no matter how slight, so I’ll wrap this up. I just have one more admittedly nitpicky question: Will my insurance company require pre-authorization to reattach any fingers the roving tween chainsaw gangs may cut off? It would be good to get a jump on that and get that pre-approved before a kindly anti-Purge group happens across what they assume is my lifeless, ruined corpse and speeds me to a makeshift clinic in a still-smoldering Fazoli’s. Of course, that would be right before I give a weak cough, and one of them exclaims, “Holy shit, they’re alive! Oh god, how are they alive?” to which the other gruffly replies, “God? There’s no god here. Not anymore. Not on Purge Night.” I guess my fear is I won’t be speaking much once the blood loss gets going, so I may not be in good enough shape for long and complicated insurance phone trees as I wait with the thousands of other twisted bodies in the field hospital’s tent triage line in this beautiful nation of states. Home of the brave. Home of the brave.
I don’t mean to sound negative. You’ve obviously thought this through, or you wouldn’t be saying it on a rally stage in a swing state mere weeks before a somehow still tight election. Still, this just feels more like the concept of a Purge plan than an actual plan. And I’m no doctor, but to my layman’s brain, it seems like we might want to flesh out the basic shape of your national healthcare policy before hard-launching your Purge plan.
Listen, I’m sure you and your team have thought it all through. It sounds like this night of complete and utter sanctioned anarchy and depraved lawlessness is just what this divided nation needs to tone down this heated rhetoric. Just one night where absolutely any act is allowed, and—
Oh, what’s that? Abortion will still be illegal during the Purge? Hey, I get that. This is America after all.