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BABY BOOMER SUICIDE

BOOMERPDX AND THE ASSIST IN OREGON’S ASSISTED SUICIDE LAW

(image courtesy justplainterror.com)

(image courtesy justplainterror.com)

Just in from lifenews.com: Oregon Assisted Suicide Deaths Hit Record High in 2012.

They argue against malicious intent, then slip it in the orange juice assist.

On the other hand, deathnews.com, a dating site, has no opinion while online authority businessinsider.com rates Portland #12 on their 15 Most Suicidal Cities In America list.

They show #13 Fresno from the perspective of a homeless camp.

#11 Pittsburgh shows an evening river view almost as pretty as Portland’s if they hadn’t used a Mt. Hood background.

From the images of Portland and the cities on either side, there’s three ways to die.

Blue tarp smothering in Fresno.

Climb Mount Hood in Portland.

Swim the Monongahela River in Pittsburgh. If they showed the Willamette you could swim there, too.

A more certain method is doctor assisted. To get that you answer a few questions.

(a) Patient’s name and date of birth;

(b) Prescribing physician’s name and phone number;

(c) Dispensing health care provider’s name, address and phone number;

(d) Medication dispensed and quantity;

(e) Date the prescription was written; and

(f) Date the medication was dispensed.

Do this to prove your intentions, to show you’re capable.

Portland baby boomers and regular readers know this topic is a first on boomerpdx. Here’s how it came up:

A woman with a beautiful German Shepard stopped on her fifteen mile walk to let a stranger pet her dog.

“He’s a trained crotch-biter,” she said.

“He bites crotches?” the man said.

“Two words. One to bite, one to let go.”

The man lowed his bag of beers to his waist.

“Can I pet him?” he said.

“Go ahead, he’s calm as a kitten. I had to get him after I had a break-in at my house.”

“Do you live in the neighborhood?” he asked, petting the dog’s ear.

“After the first time I got the dog. They came back the second time and one of them got chomped enough to leave blood across my yard to the fence. Big yard, too. Dog broke a tooth. Did you know dog’s can get their teeth capped?”

“Ouch. Had to hurt.”

“Tell me. I’m a realtor. Lost everything but the house I live in, a really nice house. The market’s turning around, but we all lost in the Great Recession. A few lost everything.”

“Everything?”

“Suicide. Five guys I knew killed themselves on the way down. Probably more but I stopped counting. Baby boomers, family guys who couldn’t face having it all, then lose it in front of their wives and kids.”

“You had it all, too?”

“Listen, honey, I’ve had it all, lost it all, had it all taken, had a stroke because of it, and none of it was work related. Losing business after what I’ve been through? That’s the least. Please.”

“Got to say you’ve made your comeback. I can hear it in your voice,” he said.

“Now you can read voices?”

“Why, yes I can,” he said in his best Barry White.

“That’s pretty good. I hear it in your voice. It matches you in your mini-van. I’m off.”

She gave the spiked control collar a gentle tug and said, “Let’s go, boy. By the way, money might equal time, but it doesn’t equal life. Remember that or I might give the word.”

She didn’t click her teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About David Gillaspie
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