ISSUE 15

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  Congress has produced their health care plan: The Death Care Act. It’s breathtakingly simple—so simple it's If you are sick or injured, we kill you.  Think of it like skipping to the end of a book. No messy reading or getting through that rough patch in chapter nine, the Death Care Act simply gets to the conclusion, which is that everyone dies.
  Like anything, you realize the answer was there all along—like ordering a Domino’s pizza instead of cooking or deciding to get dumped by Karen. And now no bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo, no hidden fees or extra taxes, no subsidizing that person who eats at McDonalds when you ran a half-marathon that one time. 
 Most government documents come down to interpretation anyways, so the fifty thousand pages after the main clause are filler—recipes, directions to Nancy Pelosi’s house, Tom Clancy’s The Hunt For Red October, what to do in a shark attack, that sort of thing. Though someone did sneak in, “If you voted for Hillary, your income tax is now half your income” on page 34,509, and OBAMA WAS BORN IN KENYA from page 20,000-27,000.
  Of course, we’re going to need a whole lot of Death Care Specialists (DCS), what with the flu and all of the unvaccinated upper class children running around. The great thing about the Death Care Act is anyone can be a DCS. All it takes is a fifteen-minute online class, a DCS certificate you can download on your phone, and you’re ready for some Congress-approved health treatment. 
  Or if you can’t be bothered, design your own test and certificate. Go on. Put a few flower stickers in the margin, doodle a stick figure, let your three-year-old scribble crayon on it. Then congratulate yourself, put that masterpiece in a frame, and slap a price tag on it. Huh, will you look at that, we suddenly we no longer need the National Endowment for the Arts or the Humanities. Talk about killing two government programs with one health care plan.   
   
  After obtaining your death care certificate, simply wait until you hear an ominous sniffle from a co-worker or family member. Finally, you can skip the next three to fifty weeks of torture and issue the final Nyquil in the form of a trusty 9mm bullet—or if you’re not a gun fan, slip the rest of those expired drugs from your hernia surgery in their coffee. You have the power.
  Even Ibuprofen can get you where you need to be if you crush up a bottle with a little Roundup and a dash of salt and pepper. And BAM, done, no more coughing, wheezing, hacking, sneezing, germ-covered, snot napkin, watery-eyed plague victims making America worse again. Some have said it’s The Final Solution… but it sounds less Nazi-ish when you call it The Bestest Solution Ever.
  The loopholes in the Death Care Act insure anyone can push through the less bestest parts. The premeditated injury kickbacks insure that you don’t have to wait for sickness. No one is going to investigate who stabbed who or how much wood stain was used in the steak marinade. It’s criminal-less crime, which is like victimless crime but better.
  How? Everything will be written in the passive voice: Ken was hit with an industrial stapler, Marianne was attacked with a leaf blower, Howard was abandoned in the baboon enclosure. No one is responsible here. It just happened. And now—because Marianne is injured—the Death Care Act and our Death Care Specialists take precedent.
  Well, it is a relief to finally have this taken care of. All we need to look forward to is a better America. It’ll be easy, like coasting down a hill in neutral or punching holes in the wall when you get angry. Just kick back and let our country run itself again—and when you see a sick person, you know what to do.