How the Rich Live Longer
Dr Sepp Fegerl makes his living telling the rich and famous where they’ve gone wrong in their lives. Today, though, it’s my turn to be subjected to his analysis. He has his hands around my liver and doesn’t like what he’s found.
‘I should only be able to get two fingers under it, but I can get three,’ he says.
Is that bad?
‘It’s not Wunderbar,’ he mutters, squeezing away like someone trying to make sausages under water.egg yolk and about a million other things, including soya and wheat. What? Me?
In his all-white, space-age surgery – the kind of place into which you imagine James Bond would abseil to have his bullet wounds dressed – Dr Fegerl moves back behind his desk and shuffles through my case notes.
Like his surroundings, the 36-year-old medical director of the clinic is dressed in white, right down to his immaculate shoes and socks. He is also handsome and kind; a devoted priest tending to his wayward flock.
‘Now,’ he says, clasping his hands together. ‘Frequent bathroom visits?’ I nod.
‘Excellent! Exactly what we want,’ he cries, and scribbles out another prescription to add to the half-dozen medicaments – a baffling array of powders, liquid drops and tablets – which he has already stipulated.
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