I’m pretty sure I speak for all the writers here when I say we wish we were dead. I’m a big fan of the inevitable mutability of all life, which must ultimately collapse before entropy’s thermodynamic might; so “assisted suicide” sounds like a bullet point I would like to see in between “giant naked tits everywhere” and “big bags of drugs for nothing” in my ideal fantasy holiday brochure.
But that’s not the only reason it’s sad that Dr Jack Kevorkian – famed killer of as many as 130 hapless humans – is dead. It’s sad because how many large-scale suicide-assistants can you name who’ve recorded their very own smooth jazz album? He’s like a sinister cross between Harold Shipman and Leonard Cohen.
Turns out he was a fucksight better at offing people than he was at playing The Jazz, but we salute him irregardless. RIP Kevorkian, you’re ripping dull flute solos and killing miserable people in heaven now.