Cheney autopsy reveals evil robot
I was going through my pockets this morning on my way out of the house, checking to make sure I still had the fentanyl transdermal patches I accidentally brought home with me, when I had a thought. I'm having another one right now that requires a little digression, but bear with me.By the way, this will have nothing to do with Dick Cheney.
Penetrating thought normally accompanies the morning pocket check. At the time you go through your pockets, you have to project forward into your day and try to foresee the things you will want to have so as not to forget them in tupperware in the fridge, or in a cigar box in your workbench, or in a folder on your desk. Normally if I have forgotten something I won't remember till it's a little too late, and I have to turn the car around. If I'm lucky the item A) is not too important to replace with some maneuvering or B) I haven't gotten on the highway yet. (It's a huge pain to turn around once I hit the highway.)
The thought I had in that slow-time of forward projection was this:
If I wind up with some terrible incurable illness that is going to hurt like nothing else, and it's just a matter of time till I croak, who the hell is going to deny me a lethal overdose of drugs? Everybody, that's who, which is to say no one in particular. No one is culpable for the state of affairs that denies people a way to die other than excruciating pain, yet in a way we all are. I also think the last thing you ever do before you die ought to be fun, and what if the drug you wind up taking too much of to die could have been better? It's not like you get a second chance. There are lots of different drugs you can overdose on, so how are you ever going to know which one you'd prefer if you haven't tried a few? "But then people would get addicted to drugs, Dale!" So what? What's the obsession with keeping people safe from themselves? We let them drive around in cars and smoke and drink, right? Spare me the puritanism.
If I'm terminally ill and don't get the deadly prescription that's going to totally remove my sense of place and self, that will painlessly shoo me out of life like a raindrop hitting the ocean, you're going to hear about me on the news, 'cause dudes, I ain't goin' out like that.
If he becomes terminally ill, Dale is going to grab some big steel weapons and fuck some serious shit up and die by his own hand anyway. Which way would you rather have it?
So then I put everything in my pockets and came to work, where when I explained to him that I had accidentally forgotten the drugs in my pocket, the narc guy was like "No harm, no foul."
++Disclaimer:
Dear authorities, I in no way intend to disparage the legitimacy of your rule over my reality, which is total. I also do not link together --or intend that any link be made between-- a crazy killing rampage and Dick Cheney, whether or not he turns out to be an evil robot. Thanks and have a nice day.++
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