He's a painkiller for all occasions


If Dr. Jack Kevorkian wrote an advice column:

Dear Dr. Kevorkian,

"Melanie" and I were best friends throughout high school and college, and shared many wonderful moments. She is getting married in a few months. Yesterday I found out that she asked "Lisa" to be her maid of honor. I am hurt and embarrassed. Should I just swallow my pride and attend the wedding and pretend that everything is all right? -- Rita T., San Antonio, Texas

Dr. Kevorkian responds: My dear woman, what you are enduring is the unendurable. Dr. Jack read your letter and within seconds was reduced to great, wracking sobs. The room grew cold. A thick, dark cloud of gloom and despair descended over me.

Fortunately, there is a way "out" of your misery. Do you have access to an automobile and a garage with poor ventilation? Legal technicalities in your state prevent me from being more forthcoming. Soak some towels and place them over any structural openings to prevent fumes from escaping.

God speed you on your sweet journey.

Dear Dr. Kevorkian,

I am 19 years old and so is my boyfriend "Freddy." At a fraternity

party last week, I found him all over this bimbo, kissing and groping her. This is the third time I've caught him with someone else. He says he loves me, but I'm not so sure. Your opinion, please. -- Martha M., Baltimore

Dr. Kevorkian responds: When Dr. Jack was your age, he, too, was involved in an unfortunate affair of the heart. Sylvia was the little tramp's name. It turned out she was "seeing" a muscular linebacker on the football team while Dr. Jack diligently studied night after night for his pre-med courses.

Obviously there was only one thing to do. Slipping into the gymnasium boiler room one night, I tied a length of rope to one of the ceiling pipes, fashioned a noose with the other end and climbed up on a chair.

Unfortunately, the rope was made from an inferior hemp and broke soon after I jumped. When I came to, instead of finding myself in the arms of a loving angel, I was being shaken by a frightened janitor with garlic breath.

Now for the good news: The rope made today is much sturdier. And there are exposed ceiling pipes everywhere.

I envy you. You go to a place of eternal Light and Peace.

Dear Dr. Kevorkian,

At a recent cocktail party, my husband "Sol" insisted the toilet paper in one's bathroom should unroll from the top. I said it's just the opposite. Several friends agreed with me. Who's right? -- Ellen L., Lewiston, N.Y.

Dr. Kevorkian responds: My God, woman, how do you stand it? A bitter, tyrannical husband who micro-manages your life, virulently anti-Semitic friends, days of unrelieved monotony broken only by scatological discussions conducted through a numbing, alcoholic haze.

I see you live near Niagara Falls. There is a secluded bluff unpatrolled by park rangers on the east side of the gorge. The elevation is nearly 200 feet. In a matter of seconds, your pain would be over.

Farewell. I look forward to our meeting one day in the Great Beyond.

Dear Dr. Kevorkian,

Your reply to the 33-year-old record company executive who struck out three times (twice with the bases loaded) in a rec league softball game was way out of line.

You suggested emptying the contents of 60 Seconol tablets into a small bowl of applesauce and swallowing it. Yet you neglected to mention that a couple of belts of vodka would cause the drugs to be absorbed that much more quickly into the bloodstream. C'mon, Doc, you're slipping! -- Dave W., Los Angeles

Dr. Kevorkian responds: You're right, Dave. It was a bad day for Dr. Jack. I was gripped by a suffocating depression and laid out by several grand-mal seizures that left me sweat-soaked and disoriented. In addition, a noise like a high-speed drill -- EEEE! EEEE! -- filled my head as well as horrible visions of hyenas with bloody mouths ripping my flesh.

My best to you and your family.

(Note: Due to the volume of mail, Dr. Kevorkian regrets that he cannot personally appear at the door of each and every person who writes in.)

Copyright © 2019, The Baltimore Sun, a Baltimore Sun Media Group publication | Place an Ad