Excuse me, ma'am? But your arse is showing.

John Ritter's widow is suing for $67M because her husband died.

She's suing the doctors who treated her husband when he had a heart attack.

She's suing the doctors who diagnosed him as healthy months or years before he had an attack that caused his aorta to burst.

She's implying that her husband was improperly rushed during the treatment of his attack, when he asked for a second opinion, and the doctor told him that there was no time.

Hm. Given that he crashed on the way to surgery, the doctor's opinion seems to have been borne out, yes?

Here's the thing (and I know that I've said this before and in different ways): We --all of us-- are going to die. I don't care how much money you have or that you spend on preventative care; you are going to pass on, at some point.

You will cease to be.

Expire and go to meet your maker.

Be a stiff.

Bereft of life, you'll rest in peace.

If you're not nailed to a perch, you'll be pushing up daisies.

Your metabolic processes will be history!

You'll be off the twig.

You'll kick the bucket!

You will shuffle off your mortal coil, run down the mountain, and join the bleedin' choir invisible!

You will become an ex-parrotperson!*

And that ain't the doctor's fault.

So if you don't mind, Widow Ritter, unless you can show that the doc's sliced your late husband's healthy aorta by accident, or left a piece of cutlery in his thoracic cavity on an earlier occasion, please cover your arse, and quit shopping for settlements and jacking up malpractice rates across the country (and my medical bills), so that you, an out-of-work actress, can be "set" for the rest of your days.

It's rather unbecoming, actually.

____
*Deepest respects to John Cleese, et al.