Horrible messages that can be heard when one plays Hanson's "Mmm-Bop" backward.

Suicide is the ultimate in teen rebellion. Bored with body piercing? Tired of tattooing? Sick of shooting heroin? Grown weary of goth? Take some pills. Slit your wrists. Blow your brains out. But, try to be thorough with your intended suicide. One wrong slice and it's the intensive care for you. You don't want to spend any more time on this planet sucking up my precious oxygen and crowding my precious space, do you? I didn't think so. I want to help you on your voyage to the big mental institution in the sky, so here is some friendly advice.

Flintstone Vitamins, even if you take all of them including Dino, will not kill you. Advil, Tylenol and Motrin may not do the trick either. Stick a bottle of prescription pills. You don't want Mommy and Daddy to find your unconscious body, do you? That would mean time in a mental hospital and snickers behind your back in school from classmates amused by your pathetic attempt to end your life.

Vertically, not horizontally. Repeat it like a mantra. Vertically, not horizontally. Vertically, not horizontally. Make a reggae song out of it. I must cut my wrists...vertically. If not, I may be in hospital...critically.

Jumping off of a bridge, while incredibly dramatic and a real "Fuck you!" to your parents, often fails. You will end up a bitter, drunken, paraplegic leeching off of government handouts and the same parents you longed to hurt. Even worse, the desensitized motorist who stopped on the bridge to videotape (what he hoped were) your last moments may sell the video to FOX's new show, World's Dumbest Manic Depressives. Then everyone will know you are not smart enough to live or die.

Carbon monoxide poisoning takes too long. Choose this method and the 'rents (said with utter disdain) are sure to find you in the nick of time. But then, maybe that's the whole idea, Jessica. Maybe you and your suicidal peers do not want to die. Maybe you just want mommy, daddy and the popular clique to pay attention to you...to love you...to make you feel special. It ain't gonna happen, sweetie, so let's continue on to one of the more publicized methods of suicide.

Remember the dorks who thought Judas Priest and Ozzy wanted them to end their miserable lives? Not all of them were successful, Jessica. They shot themselves and instead of meeting their maker, they met the plastic surgeon who tried in vain to correct their horribly disfigured faces. You don't want to be a deformed freak, do you, Jessica? You already have bad skin, huge thighs, crooked teeth and no personality, skills or talent. You are right to want to die, but what if it is not successful? Imagine the screams from terrified children looking at the area where your perfectly formed WASP nose once was.

So maybe you should live. True, scars on your wrists from repeated suicide attempts may be momentarily cool in high school ("Oh my god, Jessica, you really did that?!?"), but when you enter the real world, it is not so hip or trendy. It is pathetic. So think carefully about your choice. If all goes well and you die, great, but what if things do not go as planned? Obviously, you fucked up in life, so what makes you think you can handle such an enormous task as suicide? What makes you think you will not be brain damaged or physically deformed from your failed suicide attempt? Not only will you be sucking up my precious air and crowding my precious space, your face, paralysis and drooling will make me nauseous. You don't want to do that, do you?

Well, do you?



[Disclaimer: Before any of you twits attempt suicide and sue me, I shall inform you that my lawyer has assured me this rant is anti-suicide and no lawsuit would hold up in court. Okay, I lied, but I gave a graphic description of the consequences should your suicide attempt fail miserably. That alone should make you want to accept your lot in life.]

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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