You know who I feel really sorry for these days? Terry Schialvo's husband. He's been at this for fifteen years. Fifteen years! Dear God, let the guy alone. Total wife in a coma. I'm sure all he wants to do is get this thing over with. Maybe start dating again. Maybe even get some. But no. The in-laws won't let him. Look! Every few days she follows a balloon around the room! That mean's she's conscious! That means she's aware! She might be saved someday! Sure, it's been fifteen years since she went into a coma, that doesn't mean at some point she can be cured!

Dear Terry Schialvo's Parents, your daughter is a vegetable. A vegetard. To paraphrase the Ramones, everytime I eat vegetables, it makes me think of her. All she does is just sit there in a bed, occasionally shit and breathe. That's it. Get over it. Let her die. If you really want to hold on to her, maybe just stuff her and put her up on your mantle. There's not really that much difference between her being stuffed and put up in a mantle and her being a vegetable in a bed anyways.

And why are all those Christian-types who all believe that Heaven is the most fantasic place in the world won't let her go to it? Don't you think being all angelic and hanging out with her dead dog Smuffins and Grandpa Joe and Aunt Myrtle would be much better than what she's doing now? Let her go to the light.

Jesus criminy.