Game Over, Man, Game Over!

The title of this column is the exhortation of Private Hudson, a character in Aliens played by Bill Paxton. In one scene, it becomes clear that the Aliens mean to eat every human with maximum disgusting-ness, with appropriate unbridled screaming and a great gnashing of teeth. His character, though a space-battle-hardened Marine, freaks out and in a display of emotion that, by itself, should have earned him an OSCAR, confirms for everyone back on the troop transport what you and I already know – we’re all gonna die, man, we’re all gonna die.

Pretty morbid stuff, this death thing, but very common. Millions of people die every year. Cancer, heart attack, car crashes, dengue fever, alcoholism, misadventure – there’s no shortage of methods and practices. For the individual, the question of how and when is often, but not always, a mystery. Determining one’s end through suicide is considered taboo, certainly and is against the law in this country. In other words, if you try to off yourself and fail, you will wind up in nutball jail, though you would be arguably taking the ultimate responsibility.

Suicide aside, since that’s a debate worthy of a panel of experts, preferably dead ones, consider how you would like to meet your maker. I have a couple of scenarios for this, the LunchTime Death Special, which is $4.95 until 3 PM and includes an eggroll or free 8oz soda.

• Turn yourself into sidewalk stew by base jumping from a tall, large-city corporate headquarters without a parachute
• Buy a case of single-edged razor blades. “Accidentally” swallow them.
• Play “Dodge The Semi.” And lose.
• Take up an addiction – heroin’s a good one.
• For the last destination on your trip around the world, the one you always wanted to take and could never afford until you collected enough credit and credit cards to run up a balance that Cresus would find enviable, stop in Mecca during the Haj, position yourself near the Black Rock and shout “Allah sucks!” in Arabic until the masses crush you. I actually know how to say this, though I don’t yet want to die, so, I’ll keep it to myself, thanks.
• Take the crack ho up on her offer.
• Encase yourself in concrete.
• Pretend you are a Blood on a Crip-owned block.
• If you should be so lucky as to have an ex-co-worker go postal, stand up and shout, “Hey, loser, over here.”

I have a preference and it’s not by L’Oreal. I want to feel fine, have an average day and then go to sleep. The rest is up to the cosmos.