Ignoble, ruthless members of the wretched death panel, I ask you to take my grandmother. Please!

And kill her.

Yes, execrable medical claims representatives of WellPoint-Blue Shield, my grandma's continued existence on this planet is a farce, and should be allowed to run its natural, pitiful course without costly, artificial pharmaceutical or surgical intervention.

Other than inching her way down to the local high school at half the legal speed limit in her '88 Chrysler LeBaron to hold a sign protesting the President's healthcare reform plan, this houseplant of a woman's life is utterly without purpose. I maintain, my friends, that the world has enough quilted potholders. Sleeping, eating (with one's mouth gaping open), and regurgitating cynically contrived misinformation about mandatory euthanasia for the elderly and health coverage for illegal immigrants are no reasons to keep drawing breath.

So please, putrid death panel members, when my gammy finally gets emphysema from all the Marlboro Menthols she smokes or bowel cancer from whatever the fuck they put in the food at Hardee's, feel free to reject all her claims invoices with extreme prejudice. Say the treatment is experimental. Call it a pre-existing condition. Then bang your gavel and send her off to hell.

And don't feel bad about a thing (in case you possess the capacity). My Nana has had her life. She's turned her share of individual pieces of disgusting hard candy into large amalgamated balls of disgusting hard candy, listened to her share of John Batchelor, watched her money's worth of tax-funded, televised warfare while stitching useless, shitty potholders. When it is her time, it will be about time.

And if that time should see itself coming around sometime soon, that'd be fine by me, because I could sure use whatever I get from her shabby and dwindling estate to pay my own inflated health care premiums. Jesus Jumping Christ.