Dr. Death
by
Klark Bent
© 2009 by R. T. Hamilton Brown
Dr. Jack Kevorkian, 79, was recently paroled from his prison term after serving 8 years. He received this sentence for his assisted suicide that he blatantly videotaped and sent to a network television show for one of their ‘news magazine’ shows where it was viewed by millions.
This was admittedly just one of the 130 such episodes in his long fight to make assisted suicide a legal alternative for people who are terminally ill. He had been tried several times before but had never been found guilty of any wrongdoing. During these trials he repeatedly taunted the prosecution, which could not obtain a conviction until this instance that aired on national prime time TV.
His release was conditional on his refusal to participate in an assisted suicide. He has vehemently expressed his disagreement with the lawmakers who, in turn, vehemently disagree with him and urge continued incarceration. He has cited several states that have ruled in favor for a form of assisted suicide in which the suicide designee must be able to administer the fatal ‘blow’ that sends that person to the great beyond, or wherever they think they will go. His argument with that is; there are people in such poor medical condition that there is no way that they can do anything to help themselves on the way.
This, to me, is a very strong argument for assisted suicide, no matter what the condition of the suicide candidate. Read ‘My Story’, based on notes scribbled on index cards found in a gutter near downtown.
Fade out.
Fade in.
I have been diagnosed with an incurable disease and do not want to burden my family with my slow death. I am still able to function almost as good as many healthy people, perhaps even better than some, but I have been assured that I will be dead in 6 months. I decided to put myself down and stuck my head in the oven and turned it on. Thirty minutes later my wife happens along and pulls me away from the oven with minor burns as she admonishes me, “You dumbass, you need a gas oven to do that, we’ve always had an electric oven.”
After my minor burns healed I decided to get in my classic Corvair, which Consumer Reports condemned many years ago as a death trap, and Ralph Nader labeled as unsafe at any speed. I intended to drive as fast as I could and swerve into the path of a speeding semi truck. I figured that our combined speeds would be around 150 miles per hour, enough to turn me and my Corvair into scattered shrapnel whilst barely scratching the trucks paint.
I took my classy Corvair out and headed for the nearest high speed undivided highway. Once there I accelerated up to 70 MPH and looked for the perfect opportunity to end it all. I saw a speeding semi approaching and calculated the exact instant when I should swerve to my demise. My countdown went; 4, 3, 2, 1 and swerve. Oops, I calculated incorrectly and swung into the truck’s lane 17 feet behind his loaded trailer. The pick-em-up truck following the semi swerved into the lane I just vacated and smacked into the UPS double trailer package truck mashing Earl and Earlene King, brother and sister by-the-way, who were celebrating their 7th wedding anniversary. Their 7 children riding in the pickup’s bed were immediately put out of their filial misery. Just a small aside here, the autopsy by Billie Jo Bracken DVM, determined that Earl III, 9 months old, was killed when the shotgun in the pickup’s back window went off on the impact of the crash ventilating poor little Earl the third who was out of his misery 7 one hundredths of a second before being ejected from the pickup’s bed into a sub orbital flight.
Back to me, the important one here. I missed the semi and sailed off of the highway into a field full of hot air balloons just starting to be filled. I ripped through 6 of them gradually slowing to a stop looking at a giant jelly roll balloon from Schwartz’s bakery. I was not hurt in the least, my Corvair had a slight burn next to the left tailight form an exploding propane tank, which, by the way, cooked 2 Rottweilers and the toy Poodle they were gnawing on.
That was it; I decided that I had to have a plan in which no one, bystander, accomplice, or whatever, would be put in harms way.
Having put that scheme aside, I thought the easiest and safest thing was buying bulk aspirins and swallowing enough of them to have my vascular system immediately disintegrate thereby releasing my complete reservoir of blood to the infinite space outside of my body. I hustled off to the nearest chain warehouse store; name withheld to eliminate lawsuits, and purchased the giant 3000 tablet bottle of plain old fashioned high strength aspirin. I took about 100 of them in their food court along with a Polish sausage and a 96 ounce diet caffeine free cola. I started driving home as I shoveled more aspirins into my mouth chewing them like soft peppermint candy. Actually, I kind of liked their taste. As I came upon a Super Gas Station Fast Food Convenience Store Lottery Ticket Emporium, I felt a little queasy and pulled into their parking lot to be near a bathroom in case I was going to barf before passing. I was feeling pretty dizzy and generally yucky as I snarfed down the last handful of aspirins and headed for the bathroom door. I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it as the darkness was starting to come in from all sides. I knew this was it, I was going, but I wasn’t going to be messy about it. I reached the bathroom door by sheer luck and pushed with my last ounce of strength only to find it was locked. As I turned toward the clerk who was cowering behind bulletproof glass, I felt it coming, not eternal darkness, not the light at the end of the tunnel, but the most gigantic hurl ever seen by man. It looked like someone had ruptured a two gallon jug of Elmer’s Glue over all the dog turds from the city’s dog park. Smelled like that too. The clerk rushed out from behind her enclosure with a mop and bucket to mop up the mess before someone slipped on it and sued them for a year’s supply of high-test gasoline, no doubt a record high amount for a liability suit. The poor old girl, she slipped on some of my vomitus and fell beneath the slowly rotating skewers of the hotdog machine as it tumbled over on her, impaling her with 87 sharp nine-inch nails. She passed three days later, but not before implicating me in the plot to rob her of the days receipts and all the lottery tickets. Two others were also identified as being my accomplices. The word on the legal talk show circuit is that they face 20 to 30 years in the state penitentiary. I’m really getting that collateral damage down to a minimum.
After having my stomach pumped and a day in intensive care I was released allowing me to brood for several more days about my fate. I went back to my death-by-gas plan. I went down the basement and looked at the furnace and the water heater and saw no help there, too many safeguards. Then I dug through my toolbox and found a pipe wrench and disconnected the main gas line to the furnace upstream of the shutoff valve. That means before the shutoff valve to you computer geeks. As the gas started to issue from the open ended pipe I quickly handcuffed myself to the main three inch cast iron sewer vent pipe so that if I were to change my mind about this venture I could not do a thing to save my sorry ass. Alas, after five minutes, as I was beginning to feel a little nauseous, I did indeed change my mind. I had to gnaw off my arm just above the wrist to get out of my predicament, which I did in record time and fled through the basement door into the backyard and collapsed behind our giant old oak tree. Unbeknownst to me, as I collapsed behind the tree, my neighbor who had smelled something strange wafting over toward his house had, along with his lovely wife, come over to investigate. They knocked on the front door and when no one answered they were about to go back home. But, Frank recognized the funny smell as natural gas, they busted through the door and went in. The investigators figured they must have turned on the lights at the top of the basement stairs. Well, you know what happens when there’s an electric spark in an explosive atmosphere, kaboom. They were blown all to Hell, and not back one little bit. Now their relatives are talking about my funding the education of their four children whose most fervent desires are to become doctors.
This time it took me a month to recover from the effects of the gas and to regain my temporary hearing loss from the noise of the explosion. My shortened arm was still painful, but I was soon to be fitted for an appliance, I hope it's not a toaster oven (little joke there). I was feeling lower than that Spears girl’s panties. I thought I would just go out and buy a gun and blow my brains out. I had to fill out a bunch of papers and return to the gun shop in a week after an extensive check on my character. I returned only to be told that my gun sale had been denied because of an arrest back in 1968 near the Democratic Convention in Chicago. I was always afraid that, and my outburst at my trial when I called the prosecutor, judge, jury, and the fledgling Court TV station all those four letter words, would come back to bite my derrière. I was double despondent that I had no access to a gun. I could overpower a cop and take his. I could rob the gun store. I could cruise the darker side of town until I found someone with a Saturday night special for sale. Now, don’t get me wrong; by darker side of town, I don’t mean that as a racial comment. It is meant only to indicate the side of town where unscrupulous citizens frequent; where illegal commerce is the norm, not the exception; where the Pacers hang out. I decided that was the way to go and have been doing this for almost a year; every night walking the streets; flashing some big bills; talking to the shady denizens our fair city; the undercover cops who have guns for sale, but at a price I cannot afford. I have been arrested seven times; twice for pandering, three times for committing a sexual act in public, and four times for parking in a taxi zone. My wife has joined 3 twelve step, that’s 36 steps dude, groups to help her cope with my attitudes and me. And I am still alive, over a year after my expected demise. That is indeed sucky! If only I had been able to get a little help in the beginning. still alive, over a year after my expected demise. That is indeed sucky! If only I had been able to get a little help in the beginning.
The author wishes to state that he is not ready for Dr. Death and plans to live on and annoy his long suffering wife and children for many years to come.
by
Klark Bent
© 2009 by R. T. Hamilton Brown
Dr. Jack Kevorkian, 79, was recently paroled from his prison term after serving 8 years. He received this sentence for his assisted suicide that he blatantly videotaped and sent to a network television show for one of their ‘news magazine’ shows where it was viewed by millions.
This was admittedly just one of the 130 such episodes in his long fight to make assisted suicide a legal alternative for people who are terminally ill. He had been tried several times before but had never been found guilty of any wrongdoing. During these trials he repeatedly taunted the prosecution, which could not obtain a conviction until this instance that aired on national prime time TV.
His release was conditional on his refusal to participate in an assisted suicide. He has vehemently expressed his disagreement with the lawmakers who, in turn, vehemently disagree with him and urge continued incarceration. He has cited several states that have ruled in favor for a form of assisted suicide in which the suicide designee must be able to administer the fatal ‘blow’ that sends that person to the great beyond, or wherever they think they will go. His argument with that is; there are people in such poor medical condition that there is no way that they can do anything to help themselves on the way.
This, to me, is a very strong argument for assisted suicide, no matter what the condition of the suicide candidate. Read ‘My Story’, based on notes scribbled on index cards found in a gutter near downtown.
Fade out.
Fade in.
I have been diagnosed with an incurable disease and do not want to burden my family with my slow death. I am still able to function almost as good as many healthy people, perhaps even better than some, but I have been assured that I will be dead in 6 months. I decided to put myself down and stuck my head in the oven and turned it on. Thirty minutes later my wife happens along and pulls me away from the oven with minor burns as she admonishes me, “You dumbass, you need a gas oven to do that, we’ve always had an electric oven.”
After my minor burns healed I decided to get in my classic Corvair, which Consumer Reports condemned many years ago as a death trap, and Ralph Nader labeled as unsafe at any speed. I intended to drive as fast as I could and swerve into the path of a speeding semi truck. I figured that our combined speeds would be around 150 miles per hour, enough to turn me and my Corvair into scattered shrapnel whilst barely scratching the trucks paint.
I took my classy Corvair out and headed for the nearest high speed undivided highway. Once there I accelerated up to 70 MPH and looked for the perfect opportunity to end it all. I saw a speeding semi approaching and calculated the exact instant when I should swerve to my demise. My countdown went; 4, 3, 2, 1 and swerve. Oops, I calculated incorrectly and swung into the truck’s lane 17 feet behind his loaded trailer. The pick-em-up truck following the semi swerved into the lane I just vacated and smacked into the UPS double trailer package truck mashing Earl and Earlene King, brother and sister by-the-way, who were celebrating their 7th wedding anniversary. Their 7 children riding in the pickup’s bed were immediately put out of their filial misery. Just a small aside here, the autopsy by Billie Jo Bracken DVM, determined that Earl III, 9 months old, was killed when the shotgun in the pickup’s back window went off on the impact of the crash ventilating poor little Earl the third who was out of his misery 7 one hundredths of a second before being ejected from the pickup’s bed into a sub orbital flight.
Back to me, the important one here. I missed the semi and sailed off of the highway into a field full of hot air balloons just starting to be filled. I ripped through 6 of them gradually slowing to a stop looking at a giant jelly roll balloon from Schwartz’s bakery. I was not hurt in the least, my Corvair had a slight burn next to the left tailight form an exploding propane tank, which, by the way, cooked 2 Rottweilers and the toy Poodle they were gnawing on.
That was it; I decided that I had to have a plan in which no one, bystander, accomplice, or whatever, would be put in harms way.
Having put that scheme aside, I thought the easiest and safest thing was buying bulk aspirins and swallowing enough of them to have my vascular system immediately disintegrate thereby releasing my complete reservoir of blood to the infinite space outside of my body. I hustled off to the nearest chain warehouse store; name withheld to eliminate lawsuits, and purchased the giant 3000 tablet bottle of plain old fashioned high strength aspirin. I took about 100 of them in their food court along with a Polish sausage and a 96 ounce diet caffeine free cola. I started driving home as I shoveled more aspirins into my mouth chewing them like soft peppermint candy. Actually, I kind of liked their taste. As I came upon a Super Gas Station Fast Food Convenience Store Lottery Ticket Emporium, I felt a little queasy and pulled into their parking lot to be near a bathroom in case I was going to barf before passing. I was feeling pretty dizzy and generally yucky as I snarfed down the last handful of aspirins and headed for the bathroom door. I didn’t think I was going to be able to make it as the darkness was starting to come in from all sides. I knew this was it, I was going, but I wasn’t going to be messy about it. I reached the bathroom door by sheer luck and pushed with my last ounce of strength only to find it was locked. As I turned toward the clerk who was cowering behind bulletproof glass, I felt it coming, not eternal darkness, not the light at the end of the tunnel, but the most gigantic hurl ever seen by man. It looked like someone had ruptured a two gallon jug of Elmer’s Glue over all the dog turds from the city’s dog park. Smelled like that too. The clerk rushed out from behind her enclosure with a mop and bucket to mop up the mess before someone slipped on it and sued them for a year’s supply of high-test gasoline, no doubt a record high amount for a liability suit. The poor old girl, she slipped on some of my vomitus and fell beneath the slowly rotating skewers of the hotdog machine as it tumbled over on her, impaling her with 87 sharp nine-inch nails. She passed three days later, but not before implicating me in the plot to rob her of the days receipts and all the lottery tickets. Two others were also identified as being my accomplices. The word on the legal talk show circuit is that they face 20 to 30 years in the state penitentiary. I’m really getting that collateral damage down to a minimum.
After having my stomach pumped and a day in intensive care I was released allowing me to brood for several more days about my fate. I went back to my death-by-gas plan. I went down the basement and looked at the furnace and the water heater and saw no help there, too many safeguards. Then I dug through my toolbox and found a pipe wrench and disconnected the main gas line to the furnace upstream of the shutoff valve. That means before the shutoff valve to you computer geeks. As the gas started to issue from the open ended pipe I quickly handcuffed myself to the main three inch cast iron sewer vent pipe so that if I were to change my mind about this venture I could not do a thing to save my sorry ass. Alas, after five minutes, as I was beginning to feel a little nauseous, I did indeed change my mind. I had to gnaw off my arm just above the wrist to get out of my predicament, which I did in record time and fled through the basement door into the backyard and collapsed behind our giant old oak tree. Unbeknownst to me, as I collapsed behind the tree, my neighbor who had smelled something strange wafting over toward his house had, along with his lovely wife, come over to investigate. They knocked on the front door and when no one answered they were about to go back home. But, Frank recognized the funny smell as natural gas, they busted through the door and went in. The investigators figured they must have turned on the lights at the top of the basement stairs. Well, you know what happens when there’s an electric spark in an explosive atmosphere, kaboom. They were blown all to Hell, and not back one little bit. Now their relatives are talking about my funding the education of their four children whose most fervent desires are to become doctors.
This time it took me a month to recover from the effects of the gas and to regain my temporary hearing loss from the noise of the explosion. My shortened arm was still painful, but I was soon to be fitted for an appliance, I hope it's not a toaster oven (little joke there). I was feeling lower than that Spears girl’s panties. I thought I would just go out and buy a gun and blow my brains out. I had to fill out a bunch of papers and return to the gun shop in a week after an extensive check on my character. I returned only to be told that my gun sale had been denied because of an arrest back in 1968 near the Democratic Convention in Chicago. I was always afraid that, and my outburst at my trial when I called the prosecutor, judge, jury, and the fledgling Court TV station all those four letter words, would come back to bite my derrière. I was double despondent that I had no access to a gun. I could overpower a cop and take his. I could rob the gun store. I could cruise the darker side of town until I found someone with a Saturday night special for sale. Now, don’t get me wrong; by darker side of town, I don’t mean that as a racial comment. It is meant only to indicate the side of town where unscrupulous citizens frequent; where illegal commerce is the norm, not the exception; where the Pacers hang out. I decided that was the way to go and have been doing this for almost a year; every night walking the streets; flashing some big bills; talking to the shady denizens our fair city; the undercover cops who have guns for sale, but at a price I cannot afford. I have been arrested seven times; twice for pandering, three times for committing a sexual act in public, and four times for parking in a taxi zone. My wife has joined 3 twelve step, that’s 36 steps dude, groups to help her cope with my attitudes and me. And I am still alive, over a year after my expected demise. That is indeed sucky! If only I had been able to get a little help in the beginning. still alive, over a year after my expected demise. That is indeed sucky! If only I had been able to get a little help in the beginning.
The author wishes to state that he is not ready for Dr. Death and plans to live on and annoy his long suffering wife and children for many years to come.