Poolside Perspectives with Reuben Goldsplatt: Biden's Prostate Schlock… Do They Think We're All Schmendricks?

By Reuben Goldsplatt

Filed under: Politics, Health, Chutzpah

Oy gevalt, have you heard the latest meshugaas? President Biden has prostate cancer! Such a bombshell they drop on us today like it's nothing. Like we're all sitting poolside sipping our fancy drinks with the little umbrellas and suddenly – BOOM – the President has cancer.

Listen, bubbeleh, Reuben Goldsplatt wasn't born yesterday. I wasn't even born in the last century, if we're being honest about my back pain. You think I don't know when I'm being fed a line of dreck?

Just months ago these same White House doctors were telling us the President had a "clean bill of health." Clean like my Uncle Morty's driving record – which, between us, includes three fender benders at the Miami Beach Publix parking lot in the last year alone.

You don't just DISCOVER prostate cancer on a Tuesday afternoon like finding an extra pickle in your sandwich! These things develop slower than my nephew Irving's career as a podiatrist. One day you're getting PSA tests that are "slightly elevated but nothing to worry about," and the next thing you know, you're scheduling appointments with specialists who drive better cars than your accountant.

I did a little digging (and by digging, I mean I opened three tabs and called my cousin Lenny, who’s a radiologist in Boca). Turns out this type of cancer, Gleason 9 – sounds like a Bond villain, no? – doesn’t exactly come out of nowhere. It's aggressive, it’s sneaky, and it sure as hell didn’t pop up between March and May like a snowbird lease in Delray.

The math doesn’t lie. You’ve got PSA doubling times, metastasis timelines, biopsy backlogs – all the things I used to ignore in synagogue but now find fascinating. You do the numbers, and it says this cancer was likely creeping around the presidential plumbing back in 2022, maybe earlier. That’s right, while we were debating gas prices and Taylor Swift’s dating life, the leader of the free world had a prostate mutiny going on and didn’t say bupkis.

Now the Tapper book’s coming out – Original Sin, they call it – like it’s the Garden of Eden and Biden’s prostate is the forbidden fruit. According to early leaks (pun absolutely intended), his inner circle was keeping this quiet like my Aunt Frida keeps her brisket recipe. Advisers whispering about wheelchairs, aides dodging reporters like gefilte fish at a vegan brunch, and a President determined to run again despite the fact his urethra was apparently sending up smoke signals.

And let’s talk about those press releases, nu? I’ve seen more detail on a can of tuna. They gave us six pages about his feet, his allergies, and a skin lesion they removed from his chest, but not a single mention of the PSA? That’s not omission, sweetheart – that’s obfuscation with a side of schmear.

When you hide health issues this serious, it’s not just medical privacy – it’s market manipulation! Imagine if Apple said, “Oh by the way, Tim Cook has a rare brain fog and we didn’t mention it because he seemed peppy at the shareholder meeting.” Wall Street would shvitz itself!

Instead, we get this slow-motion reveal like it’s a prestige miniseries. First the nodule, then the test, then the stage-four whopper. What’s next, a dramatic cliffhanger where Kamala finds out she’s been president for six months and no one told her?

Meanwhile, I’m here at the Caribbean Bay Resort, watching the sun dip below the horizon like Biden’s approval rating. The bar is nervous. The staff’s nervous. Even Raul, who normally wouldn’t notice a nuclear strike if it didn’t affect happy hour, asked me if a prostate can collapse the dollar.

Well, Raul, not directly. But a metastasis of trust? That can tank a democracy faster than you can say "oy gevalt."

They think we're schmendricks. They think we’ll nod along, smile, and pretend a Gleason 9 diagnosis is no big deal. That we’ll accept the idea that this news just happened to come out four months after the guy lost reelection. As if the tumor waited till he was off taxpayer-funded Metamucil to make its grand debut.

Let me tell you something: my cousin Saul had a Gleason 9. They caught it late. He didn’t go from "fine" to "bone metastasis" in six weeks unless his doctor was also his poker buddy. No, this kind of diagnosis means you either missed the signs, ignored the signs, or – and here’s the kicker – buried the signs under the Resolute Desk.

The voters deserved to know. Hell, Kamala deserved to know. If the VP was kept in the dark too, that’s not just mismanagement, it’s a borderline constitutional crisis. What happens if he’d won? We spend a second term with a shadow president and a catheter?

But Reuben, you say, isn’t this a bit harsh? Can’t a man get a little privacy?

Sure! If he’s your uncle Marvin in Boca. Not if he’s the nuclear-code-carrying Commander-in-Chief! We’re not talking about an embarrassing rash or a youthful indiscretion. This is metastatic cancer – the kind of thing that affects decision-making, stamina, and foreign policy more than a dozen classified briefings.

And don't get me started on the aides. These kvetchers, these handlers, they make the Sopranos look like amateur hour. At least Tony Soprano told his crew the truth before he whacked someone. Biden’s team kept this under tighter wraps than my Bubbe’s afikoman during Passover.

You want a metaphor? This whole thing is like biting into a knish and finding out it’s stuffed with lies. It looks warm and golden from the outside, but inside? Deception and maybe some undercooked cabbage.

What burns my kishkes is the arrogance. They thought they could spin this. That the American people would just say, “Well, he’s old, whaddaya gonna do?” I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do – we’re gonna demand better.

Better transparency. Better accountability. Better brisket. Okay, that last one’s personal.

The next time they send out one of these glossy health reports with more fluff than a Miami beach towel, we ask the real questions:

• Where are the PSA numbers?

• When did you first suspect?

• Who knew and when?

• And who thought it was okay to let the country elect a man whose prostate was more aggressive than a Times Square Elmo?

Markets hate uncertainty. Voters hate being lied to. And Reuben Goldsplatt hates when the government thinks we’re too dumb to read a pathology chart.

Look, I don’t hate the man. I voted for him. I wept at his inauguration. I even bought a commemorative coin – $24.99 from a guy in Queens. But this? This is a shande. This is a betrayal wrapped in a lab coat.

So what now? Well, Tapper’s book will sell. The press will foam. And the spin cycle will go another round. But I’ll be here, poolside, with a towel over my lap and a piña colada in hand, reading biopsy reports like they’re beach novels.

Because in this country, if you don’t do your own homework, you get taken for a ride. And not the good kind with the massage and the champagne. I’m talking economy class, middle seat, with a screaming toddler and a broken seatbelt.

Remember, bubbelehs: In finance and in politics, always check the fine print. And when someone tells you the President is “healthy,” ask to see the scans.

Until next time, this is Reuben Goldsplatt saying: invest wisely, question everything, and never trust a government that hides your PSA.

Reuben Goldsplatt provides financial commentary from his poolside office at the Sunset Cove Resort & Spa. His opinions do not constitute medical advice, but they might cause indigestion. Tan lines not included.