Play God!

| edited

I recommend the edited version if you can’t handle the unspeakable truth about religion. Otherwise, the original version is more likely to tickle your godless funny bone.

I’m generally pretty slow and unable to do any comics that cover something while it’s still dominating the news cycle. Lucky for me, Tom Delay and the Republicans in Congress have been riding Terri Schiavo all week long, effectively jingling a pair of giant keys in front of the wide-eyed media for the entire week.

Unlike everyone else in the world, I have no opinion on whether or not Schiavo’s food pipe should be returned. It’s not my decision to make. It’s her husband’s. He is her legal guardian. Parents lose that position when their kids marry, even if they marry someone whose decisions they don’t agree with. Archie Bunker would have no legal grounds to overrule the decisions of Meathead, should Gloria have fallen into a persistent vegetative state instead of becoming a gigantic fatty. It’s the law, even in that backwoods shithole we call Florida.

The point of this comic is that Congress wrote a law, and the President signed it, in just one weekend, claiming that such extraordinary measures were necessary to save a life, one that most scientists agree is nothing more than a piss and shit factory. There are dozens of legitimate laws they could’ve written last weekend that would’ve saved thousands, probably millions, of lives, lives of people whose brains aren’t necrotic lumps of dead flesh.

I may be an asshole for referring to Terri Schiavo as a brainless lump of poo, but at least I’m consistent. I think the same thing about people who aren’t even in comas. But if you’re going to claim that her life is precious, and that ending it is a heinous act, get off your fucking cross and do something about the thousands of other people who are needlessly sent to their deaths every day. Otherwise, your “culture of life” is just a stupid catch phrase.

And since I can’t afford an actual lawyer, I’ll write my living will here and hope someone Googles “Brian McFadden Living Will” should my brain figuratively shit the bed, leaving me literally shitting the bed.

If I should get into an accident in which I suffer minor brain trauma, I might become just retarded enough to enjoy crap like Fear Factor, Nickelback, or John Grisham novels. While embarrassing to my friends and family, and even to my fully functional self, I would like to be kept alive in this condition. But kill me if I start quoting from Austin Powers movies.

If I become paralyzed, and unable to speak or interact with my environment, yet retain my higher brain functions, please kill me. I can barely tolerate my body when it’s working.

For everything else, please freeze me. We are currently in a dystopian future, so whatever awaits my frozen carcass couldn’t be any worse.