I'm never sure what temperature to cook a roast, much less my own head. Even if I decided to bake it at a slow 325, I'm notorious for under cooking everything so chances are I'd take myself out before I was done.
That's my problem. I can't commit.
I can't do it with pills either because I don't have any of the good ones. The best I could do would be to take a half empty bottle of Children's Chewable Cold & Cough that's been in my medicine chest since 1999. It wouldn't kill me but I would be delightfully less mucus filled and God help me, I find that idea pretty appealing.
My Father once tied a string to my loose tooth and also to a door. When he slammed the door shut, he had every expectation my tooth would fly from my mouth. It did not. That has nothing to do with this column, but I thought it might give you some insight into my fragile mental state.
I saw a guy on TLC who was killing himself with food. He weighed about a thousand pounds and just laid around with a sheet over his business while sucking back buttered biscuits with peach preserves and whole geese.
That seems doable. I have a sheet, I can make my own biscuits pretty much any time I want and there are a whole bunch of raw geese at the park.
I could do that. I could totally do that.
Please play this at my funeral.
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