Inside Doug's Head

I am not a number, I am… What's that stuff they make glue out of? I'm that. Forever swirling, forwards and upwards, but always sticky. Sometimes, a little sad.

Lately, I have been thinking of moving back to Canada. Not for the lackluster economy or the dreadful weather. No. I’m thinking of going for their new and improved assisted suicide program. They are installing suicide booths on every corner. Unfortunately, the booths are manufactured by Diebold, so their effectiveness varies wildly. You might go in for a killin’ and end up with a maimin’.

Suicide is how the government is controlling the rising costs of medical care. The wait list for an MRI is two years, but we can send you to the knacker man first thing tomorrow. It’s also how I plan to retire. There are probably forms that you need to fill out, explaining why you should be assisted. Now that I think about it, I suppose I’ll need a better reason than the wind keeps making my hair move and I don’t know how much longer I can continue complaining.

Okay, my head is stuffed full of useless knowledge and it constantly aches as a result. There are stairs that are causing me some ups and downs. Yesterday, I dug a hole, yah, a really deep one. But it didn’t go to China! Like it was supposed to. It came out in the middle of some stupid ocean, and I almost drowned. I thought we were antipodal to Beijing! I worked hard to dig that hole, and now I’m tired. Give me my sweet release, Government of Canada! There’s no fees, is there? Dying is always free in Canada; it’s the living you pay for.

Oh yeah, also I am saddened by the fact that Canadians don’t get Hulu, and they can’t watch Rick & Morty because the government considers it seditious. Hopefully, I can choose how they kill me. I want to be hunted cross-country by a hot chick assassin, and then strangled with a leather belt while high on heroin. At the moment of my death, she drools into my eyeball. Right? How hot is that?

No! Better! I want to be murdered by a vengeful prostitute over a matter of $6—someone wizened and leathery from years of hard living, but really wise and deep on the inside. After they kill me, they can drop a pearl of wisdom at my funeral. It’s a sad day when you don’t learn something. Obviously, they would have something better to say. Something wise and deep about beavers and bears and the incomprehensible bigness of the universe.

You know those days when you tip the glass a little too much, even though you are drinking with a straw? A wayward ice cube bobs to the edge, and the next thing you know you’re covered in Bloody Mary. I was planning on drinking that.

I’m all over the place here. Long live CH3−CH2−OH! Monkeys rule! And tacos.

—DG.

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