A friend of a friend of mine hit rock bottom a few weeks back when he was diagnosed with testicular cancer. The medical advice he received was to have his nuts removed but he felt it was better to kill himself than to walk around with no cojones. The problem was that he didn’t have the balls, cancerous or not, to pull a Kurt Cobain. Instead, he asked his friend to whack him. However, his friend was a pussy who chickened out and asked my friend to help Mr. Rotting Scrotum out. And my friend was an even bigger pussy who, in turn, asked me to remedy the problem. And I, being the biggest pussy of them all, decided it would be best if I got some advice regarding the situation. After all, this was a guy’s life that we were talking about. So, I drove over to the one person whom I thought could assess the situation with an unbiased mind- Doctor Jack Kevorkian.

After hearing out the story of the guy with the ding-dong cancer Dr. Kevorkian explained to me that had I come to him a decade ago he could have helped me out without a moment’s hesitation. But, his imprisonment in 1999 and his release a few weeks ago, under the understanding that he would no longer deal with cases like the one at hand, had made him change his mind against assisting any more suicides.

So, I spent about fifteen seconds trying to convince him otherwise. I explained to him that he wouldn’t, exactly, be assisting suicide. He would just be assisting me in assisting my friend assist his friend assist the suicide of his friend. That wasn’t technically assisting suicide. Dr. Kevorkian pondered over this for about three seconds before he said, “Cool. Let’s euthanize some ass.”

The nature of things had slightly altered by the time Dr. Kevorkian and I reached Mr. Jewels-in-jeopardy. He was beginning to have second thoughts about knocking himself off. Apparently somebody gave him the misinformation that a man is more than his balls. Dr. Kevorkian wasn’t pleased, “You’re being silly. We aren’t talking about your throat or your lungs. This is your sperm marbles that we’re talking about. Leading a life as a castrated man is like living as Calista Flockhart after Ally Mcbeal got pulled off the air. You’re just an unwanted piece of vagina.” This definitely managed to break the spirits of Mr. Cojones-in-Crisis. He struggled to be optimistic, “But I can still do something meaningful with my life. I can focus on my creative side and contribute something to society; I can make a difference.” Dr. Kevorkian looked at him like he was looking at a dark-skinned leading man in Bollywood, “You’re kidding yourself, son. Once you lose your nuts you’re no longer a man. It’s better to die now with your dignity and your balls in place. I promise you it’ll be an extremely painless experience for you.” Dr. Kevorkian was almost salivating; the cancer guy was in tears; I had a serious craving for some deep fried chicken wings.

Dr. Kevorkian, encouraged by the reinforcements, took a step forward towards the guy with the dying nutsack. “Don’t you dare take a step forward you inhuman, insensitive, devilish, murderous bastard,” shrieked the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs. “Watch your mouth, you ignorant ass-pimples. Do you have any idea what it feels like when you’re disfigured or severely disabled? Do you have any idea the sense of futility a person diagnosed with a terminal illness feels? Do you have any idea the physical and mental pain he has to suffer?” Dr. Kevorkian began to get aroused hearing this; one of the anti-euthanasia jerkoffs asked, “Do you?” The Church of Euthanasia leader replied, “No but we’ve got a pretty good imagination. We are able to empathize with them. Dying a dignified death is far better than living life as a liability.” The anti-euthanasia jerkoffs leader interjected, “Liability for who? The supposed family of the patient who can’t look after one of their own in a time of distress? The society who sees these patients as economical parasites?” The Church of Euthanasia replied, “Look at the world’s population exploding by the million every minute. If an individual feels the need to end his existence without causing any more misery to himself that is his choice. It’s in fact his contribution to the world. It’s his life and it’s his right to end it.” One of the anti-euthanasia poofs suggested, “Then why don’t you all start by killing each other. Why work so hard to get others killed?” The pro-euthanasia poofs replied, “Somebody has to speak up for those poor bastards who want to top themselves.” This time the anti-euthanasia asswipes moved two steps towards Dr. Kevorkian and then one of them said, “Speak up all you want but this Doctor Death that you have here, he ain’t gonna be practicing no more.” Not five seconds passed before it broke out- the ultimate jerkoff fistfight. The two groups hit, kicked, bit, fingered, and fondled each other like crazy.

By this time I was down to my last chicken wing. Suddenly out of nowhere, I felt someone grab the final piece from my grasp- it was Mr. Cancer Nuts. “I’ve decided not to kill myself by committing suicide. I’ll just live my life doing all the things that I was afraid of doing. I’m going to eat all the high cholesterol food I can get my hands on; I’m going to have unprotected sex with blind amputees; I’m going to drive into herds of sheep; I’m going to urinate on limos; I’m going to defecate on George Clooney. By God, I’m going to start living my life. First, I’m going to enjoy this chicken wing.”

Now, I was pissed. I threw myself on the newly reformed chicken stealer trying to take back what was rightfully mine. Dr. Kevorkian, who was still standing there with his death-talk-induced boner, decided it was time for him to climax. He headed slowly towards the meat burglar and me. “I don’t care who dies but I need to get rid of my erection,” he chanted. However, in that convulsive brawl my right leg caught Dr. Kevorkian in his globes sending him flying onto the electric chair. On his way, he lost balance and landed right on the syringe having the lethal injection, sending the poison straight up his asshole. But the chicken was in the possession of Mr. Killer Knackers; I had to think fast.

I grabbed one of the chewed out chicken bones from the bucket and hurled it straight at the chicken filcher. It found its target but it found it too well sending the last chicken wing flying towards the switch that activated the electric chair. The fight between the two groups of jerkoffs halted; everyone watched Dr. Kevorkian get electrocuted and turn into a lifeless pile of scraggly flesh within seconds.

The entire room fell silent. The testicle guy ran out of the room with the chicken wing in his hand. The anti-euthanasia jerkoffs left the room to show respect to the departed soul, and also to have a celebratory orgy. The Church of Euthanasia gathered around him, stared at their savior and said, “Here lies a man who died for a true cause.” And then they left too. “Amen to that,” I said, seeing that Dr. Kevorkian’s erection was finally gone.