the worst way to go
I beseech thee, Great Spirit, to grant me a peaceful death—allow me to quietly slip away in my sleep, or at least let me be so fucking skagged-out on pain medication that nothing matters anyway.
Perhaps due to an all-encompassing sense of personal guilt and a queasy foreboding that divine retribution is imminent, I've often pondered what would be the worst sort of death God could possibly plot for me.
Being buried alive—tossed in a ditch and packed down with hard dirt that fills my nostrils and mouth and wracks me with a deathly panic although I'm unable to move my limbs, slowly blacking out while knowing it's the end and I'm settling into my tomb—would be near the top of my list.
So would being burned alive, watching my own flesh drip from my limbs until my eyeballs explode. The torment is impossible to conceive, further out in Painland than anything I've ever felt.
Drowning wouldn't be a treat, either, especially if, while I was drowning, I happened to be eaten by a giant sea creature.
Freezing to death while stalled-out in a car somewhere in the Rockies, shivering until it hurts my muscles, ice crystals forming on my eyelashes, slowly transforming into a Goadsicle, holds a special terror for me. I'm a complete cold-weather pussy. Anything under 40°F, and I'm screaming like a woman.
I think that I could conceivably be tickled to death.
But the worst way to go, of course, is to be forgotten.
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Trucker Fags in Denial will finally be published as a comic book in March by Fantagraphics.
