Will Durst sez . . .

[Harry Edwards]

Published on Thursday, March 31, 2005 by CommonDreams.org

Plug Me In

by Will Durst

 At first I thought the only halfway decent thing to come out of the 
Terry Schiavo Tragedy was watching all those grandstanding politicians 
choke on their own bugles as they rear ended each other sounding 
retreat on the freeway exit ramp to the Tampa/ St Pete airport at Mach 
UII. But I was wrong.

  Another positive side effect is the vast legions of citizens awakened 
to the realization that we are responsible for plotting their own 
deaths. Newspapers are printing primitive but binding Living Wills next 
to Hagar the Horrible. Which is good. Facing up to our mortality might 
force a few of us to understand there are more important things to life 
than which parties somebody was or wasn’t invited to and whose 
Zirconian replica of Paris Hilton’s dog’s collar looks realer.

  Right now, most of the concerned introspective muttering consists of 
chastened yuppies adamantly professing their refusal to end up a 
vegetable. “I guarantee that’s not going to be me. I refuse to live 
like a rutabaga. If you love me at all, you’ll pull my plug.” To these 
well meaning banana heads, I have one thing to say: “Not me brother. 
Plug me in.”

  I want to live. As man, vegetable or refreshing side order of fruit 
salad with strawberry yogurt sauce. Hell, I never thought I’d make it 
this far to begin with. When I was a kid, anybody older than 30 was 
withered ancient. A prehistoric geezer. A core sample of archaic decay. 
But even then, I never bought into that whole “hope I die before I get 
old” crap. And now, I’m aiming for triple digits. A couple more years? 
If that’s all you got, it’ll do fine. A month. Part of a week. Cool. 
Cool. All I want is extra. I want more.

  You see, now that I made it this far, I kind of like it. Puppies. 
Sunsets. Bases loaded, bottom of the ninths. Large print Robert Crais 
mysteries. Jalapeno flavored potato chips. Life is good. And I plan to 
hang onto it with the tips of my fingernails. If the only way to keep 
my respirator charged is by fluttering my eyelids 24 hours a day, I 
will flutter. Who knows what tomorrow’s scientists might come up with? 
Maybe they’ll uncover a fountain of middle age. A perpetual eyelid 
flutterer. Why do you think they call it the future?

  “So you’re content to linger like a vegetable?” Yeah. Sure. Why not? 
What’s the big deal? So I’m Mr. Potato Head. Like I wasn’t before. You 
think my soul will be soiled beyond repair because someone referred to 
me as the Brussels Sprout Boy? Soil me. Isolate a webcam on my hospice 
bed and pay per view me as the Human Asparagus Video Blog. Water me 
from a sprinkling hose. Use my open mouth as a pencil cup and call me 
Shorty.

  Test poisonous toad cosmetics on my tongue. Lend me out as a large 
prone pin cushion at a Tattoo Arts Convention. Fit me with scuba gear, 
bury me naked with my butt sticking up and use it as a bicycle rack. I 
don’t care. Let me live. That’s Will’s Living Will. And if I do sink 
into a coma or become completely brain dead, someone try and remember 
to hook me up to an IV drip of pure caffeine, because I don’t want to 
miss a thing.

  Political comic Will Durst pretty much already has the  IV full of 
caffeine thing going for him. Catch Durst Thursday the 31st at the 
Purple Onion in San Francisco or Friday, April Fool’s Day, at the 
National Press Club in D.C.