I wasn't paying much attention at the time, as it seemed one of those problems a rich man has, that can scarcely be of any interest to, or concern of, ordinary or poor people.
Apparently 0bozocare entailed Skippy having to change insurance companies, about a year, two years, ago. He complained about it, but I forget what his complaints were, because again, it was as if a decadent hedonist was complaining of haemorrhoids, while ordinary or poor people were afflicted with greater ailments, many of those bound to shorten their lives.
Skippy lives in some sort of lurid, grotesque
wolkenkuckucksheim, a cloud-cuckoo-land, and has no idea how good he has it.
If come the revolution for which the primitives yearn, Skippy'd be one of those riding in the tumbril, and he doesn't even see it.