Damnable Deer Hunter Depravity

Deer Hunter was back last night. I really need to get rid of that asshole.

This time was different, however. This time, he was Deer Hunter Incognito. He approached the counter with some girl who had a few scripts from the ER. I took the scripts from her and entered them into the computer, telling her it would take just a few minutes. She walked over to the waiting area and sat down, but Deer Hunter remained. I didn't realize it was him until he handed me a script from the same ER with his name on it.

I hadn't recognized DH initially because he was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over his brow, part of what I'll refer to as White Trash Uniform. You wear this uniform if you live in my city and fit these four categories:

1) White/Anglo/Caucasian
2) Male
3) Age 13-50
4) IQ < 100

The White Trash Uniform (WTU) has many variations and a few crucial components. They're all clASSy. The most important feature is that all articles of clothing are no less than two sizes too large. The pants must be hanging off the ass. Headwear is optional, but if not present corn rows are preferred. Bling in the form of neck chains or oversized watches is preferred, just so people can see what a balla you are. Neck tattoos are also preferred. Shirt should feature local professional sports team or weed leafs.

I'll never understand the White Trash Uniform. You might as well wear a sandwich board that says, "I live in a trailer, beat my girlfriend/dog/kids, get arrested biweekly, and generally suck at life."

DH handed me a prescription and surprisingly did not start into some long winded explanation about how he had fucked up and lost his drugs. I started to put them into the computer and remembered that the last few times he had been in he'd had no insurance cards. I kindly asked DH if he could provide me with his insurance information.

DH: Uh, yeah! I got Medicare!

I surveyed DH with my eyes for a few seconds. He returned my gaze with a look of puzzlement and dim hope. I sighed internally and asked DH if he happened to have an insurance card on his person so that I could properly bill his scripts.

DH: I go to Kmart! They got it all there.

I reminded DH that Kmart was not open in the middle of the night. I nearly reminded DH that he and I had been through this particular performance before. I decided he might read between the lines, realize I was calling him an idiot, and opted not to.

I eventually located DH's Medicaid coverage with the miracles of modern technology and filled the scripts he had from the ER. I called him up to the counter to ring him up at which time he engaged me in cordial conversation.

DH: Yeah, me an' the ol' lady havin' a rough night. Went to the ball game! I fell down the stairs at the stadium, and she got a sore mouth. Helluva deal!

Remember the last time DH came to my pharmacy? He got drunk at the river and lost his drugs. Tonight, he got drunk at the baseball game (drunk? based on the way he smelled, he was probably swimming in the beer) and stair-surfed the upper deck. He must not be able to handle his liquor.

In related news, NPR reported this morning that my state is in budget crisis for next year. One of the key areas needing more funds was Medicaid, so people like DH can get drunk and fall down not just on weekends but Tuesday too.

I quit.