A Letter to the Cigarettes that Will Eventually Kill MeBy Luis Prada
Dear, Cigarettes that will eventually kill me.
I hear that you’re full of carcinogens and tar and poisons that will kill me one day. Is this true? I’m pretty sure it is, but I want to hear your side of the story before I make any rash decisions. I know, you will read that sentence and get all panicky like you always do. It’s just that I’ve been smoking you guys a lot lately and I’ve just been concerned that it may have some negative effects, in both the short and long terms.
For instance, the other day I was casually eating my tri-weekly triple Baconator from Wendy’s, when all of a sudden my chest got tight and I became short of breath. This was a bit bothersome because I don’t usually feel that type of pain until after I’ve eaten my triple Baconator and I’ve had my post-triple Baconator tri-cigarette smoke (one cigarette in honor of each beef patty in the triple Baconator). Now, I’m not sure if this was your doing, or perhaps some random freak occurrence. But I heard on a commercial that cigarettes can kill, so I, for just a moment, figured that was that my time was up and you were going to murder me, somehow. Maybe with an 8-inch blade, or some type of bludgeoning weapon.
The point is: I worry that while you may be satisfying the receptors in my brain with the nicotine they need, I think you may be trying to cause me harm. Deliberately. Like, no joke. You’re trying to “off” me. Like I’ve done anything bad to you to warrant a murdering.
I’m on to you, though. I see what you’re up to. I can hear you guys scheming; you and your conspiratorial whispers as you rest in my pocket. I know you guys are up to something. While I don’t quite know what that something is just yet, I’m just letting you know right now that I, as of this very moment, am taking precautionary measures to prevent you from ending my life.
Does this mean I will stop smoking you? Hell no. That’s just what you’ll expect me to do. The moment I quit you guys is the same moment I get pulled out of bed at night, get strapped to a chair and get beaten with rods. Plural. More than one rod. Maybe one that’s ice cold, and another that’s red hot. The Alternating temperatures, along with the stinging shock of the rods against my flesh, cause me to writhe in pain until my central nervous system shuts down and I am no more…
Christ! That’s just me spit-balling an idea of what you might do to me, and I’m already thinking up scenarios on how to escape such a horrible fate (Hint: killing all of you. Hard.)
But that’s not the only scenario that I’m preparing myself for. I’ve got a list of literally dozens of potential ways that you guys could possibly kill me, and I’ve got a plan for each of them. For instance, I know that you know that I love Go-gurt. One of my scenarios has you guys slipping some arsenic in to the Go-gurt that I take with me whenever I go extreme rollerblading. To combat this, I will continue to eat the arsenic-laced Go-gurt and actively attempt to not digest the arsenic parts. I have yet to figure out how I will separate the arsenic from the creamy Go-gurt once it’s in me, but I once saw a video of a guy that separately swallowed a locked Masterlock and a key. He shook his stomach around a bit and then puked up an unlocked Masterlock with the key in the key hole. I will do the same with arsenic and Go-gurt.
And I’ve got another one where you slowly and excruciatingly kill me with lung cancer over the course of many decades. In that scenario, I will escape and kill you by…curing cancer. Again, I’ve yet to completely work that one out, but I’m confident I can do it. I’m confident that I can cure cancer if need be. I don’t know dick about medical science, but I figure curing cancer shouldn’t be too hard a prospect. I mean, like, all I have to do is find out what cancer doesn’t like and just do that to it. A lot.
Those are just my preparations for a sneak attack, though. I have other plans, Cigs. More better plans. I’ve got plans for preemptively striking before you can ever harm a hair on my head, or in any way hinder my ability to fornicate without having to take a knee and catch my breath only a few meager thrusts in.
I’ve got this plan where I kidnap you. Yeah, that’s right. I’m going to capture you when you least expect it. I’m going to capture you and keep you locked away in a dungeon of my own design. It’s a fairly roomy dungeon with lots of throw pillows and a wet bar. It has a strobe light for when I want to get down with my bad self, because it also doubles as a totally hoppin’ night club called “Dungeon.” It’s really cool. There are scantily clad women dancing in chains and shackles. Sadly, you will not be able to see the scantily clad women dancing in chains and shackles, nor will you be able to enjoy the comforting softness of the many throw pillows; for you will be blindfolded and tied to a chair (you do have eye, right?). You will also have in ear plugs because I don’t want you to feel jealous when you’re all bound up in a closet and everyone else is having a ball on the dance floor (ears, that’s a thing you’ve got, too, right?).
Once there, I will commence with the torture. It’s gonna suck for you, Ciggs. Chinese water torture, weatherboarding, electrodes on your testicles (again, do you have any?). After you have been sufficiently tormented, I will begin the killing process in a process I like to call the “Murdering process.” The “Murdering process” is pretty simple, really. I lower you in to a large canyon where you and I will battle with rusty knives while we a circled by a motorcycle gang wielding poisonous chains. I’ve already got it all set up. I just make one call and I’m ready to go. Sure, I’m bankrupt now, because the motorcycle gang grossly over-charged me for their services ($800,000, plus my wife is a little much, don’t you think?), but it’ll be all worth it in the end. In the end, you will be dead and I will be victorious.
Of course, after all this, you may be wondering just why I have revealed my plots to you. You may be thinking that I am a fool for letting you know just how I am going to strike before you cause me any further harm.
Of course, you’re thinking that. I want you to keep thinking that. I want you to live in fear because while you may know what I’m going to do, you don’t know when it will occur. It could be tomorrow. It could be a month from now. It could be in 53 years.
You just don’t know.
I’ll leave you with that thought. Sweet dreams, Cigs. It’s been nice knowing you.
P.S. – Look behind you.