Once this has been totally legalized, these would be a great idea. The mobiles could be painted in bright designs, to take the stigma out of euthanasia – inside the mobile could be a party atmosphere. We could have some with pictures of beautiful women and men surrounded by clouds, hands out, beckoning, calling those thinking of suicide to ‘come, come’, ‘you can do it. I did!’ The truck could have a theme too, like an ice cream truck. It’d be rolling down the street playing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. The slogan would be ‘Come, let’s just put you out of all of that ‘ol misery.’
You see my biggest fear is that I’d shoot myself in the head, miss the important artery and wind up being a vegetable. Or I’d hang myself, the rope breaks right where my brain’s been starved to the point of no return, and I’d be the drooling idiot nauseating the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner. Auntie Barbie would have to feed me. For some reason she’s the only one that I’d take to without writhing in protest since I’d be unable to talk. My sister would be mad and would shove the fork into my mouth with the intent of stabbing me I’m sure. My brother, well, he’d say, ‘She did this to herself. Let her starve to death!” I wouldn’t even be able to laugh at the irony of that. Auntie Barbie’s the most sensitive of all of my mother’s sisters plus she’s a nurse. The food would roll out of my mouth back onto my plate in a heap of mush. Everyone’d try to be evolved about it but in reality, they’d think it was gross. Auntie Barbie would roll her eyes at them and keep feeding me, martyr that she is. She’d tell them that God spared me from death for some reason because he had some special purpose for me then she’d prop up my bobbling head and wipe excess saliva from the side of my mouth. But regardless, some of my relatives, ever so quietly in the back of their head would still wish that I hadn’t missed my shot. If you think about it, after all this was a goal that I’d sought that I hadn’t been able to achieve. But oh well.
So you see, the mobiles would eliminate the possibility of this kind of an error. They’d be staffed with the finest experts in the medical community. And the mobiles would be great because they’d come right to your door. All you’d have to do is call 1-800-U Kill Me and they’d be there lickedy split. Because face it, most people thinking of killing themselves are too depressed to drive or to take the bus anywhere to some kind of a euthanasia center. The mobiles would even encourage more people to kill themselves perhaps. People who normally wouldn’t consider such a thing would entertain the idea now because it would be so darned convenient. We could rid ourselves of all types of nuisances who need only a nudge to go through with it; the self-pitying depressives that suck the lives out of us, the ones who go around blaming others for their misfortunes; people who call you ten times a day because they can’t figure it out for themselves – you know, those people David Byrne talks about in ‘Psycho Killer’, the ones who start a conversation they can’t even finish, the ones who talk a lot, but aren’t saying anything. What about those miserable gossips who can’t find any value in their own lives? And then there are the ones whose looks you don’t like; people who stink; people who look at you funny; people who let their car alarms go off while they’re standing right there; people you see everyday who don’t say hello; people who don’t deserve the good fortune they’re receiving while you haven’t gotten shit that you’ve asked for…okay, okay – so I’ve gone a little off track with this last group, but you get my drift about the other ones, don’t you?
1800ukillme 