Once upon a time, there was a guy named Uncle Sam. Like all of us, he had his faults--he could be a bit arrogant, selfish, shortsighted, or oblivious at times, but his heart was (mostly) in the right place. Pretty much everybody that knew him liked him, and he was always around to lend a hand if things got tough.
One day, 19 shitheads jumped Uncle Sam. They roughed him up pretty good, and he had to go to the hospital. The doctor was very concerned and told him they'd need to operate. The doctor used a lot of jargon to describe what had happened, and Sam was still reeling from the attack, so he consented. The doctor ended up doing quite major surgery, although Sam had been led to believe that it would be an outpatient procedure.
Nothing seemed to help. Sam wasn't getting any better; in fact, he got worse. He went back to the doctor, complaining of new symptons. The doctor furrowed his brow, and sighed heavily, and said he'd have to run some more tests and then they'd have to do even more surgery.
Sam didn't like the sound of that at all. So he sought out a second opinion.
The second doctor told him exactly the same thing as the first doctor, so Sam went ahead with the surgery with the first doctor.
It didn't take. Now Sam was hurting more than ever, and seriously mistrusted the first doctor. He went back to the second doctor and angrily demanded a different opinion.
But the second doctor sure as hell didn't give him what he wanted, let alone make him any better. In fact, in that second visit to the second doctor, he got the same ol' bullshit.
When Sam protested, the second doctor shrugged and asked him where else he was going to go.
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(The moral of the story is left as an exercise for the reader.)