Die, Depression, Die.

This is the CARTOON version of Depression. Is that a ball and chain? Who knows? And what is up with that monocle? Clearly the artist did not have personal experience with depression.

Whatever ass-licking son of a bitch it was who invented depression deserves to be stripped bare of all skin so that the body’s billions of super-sensitive nerve endings are exposed— to air and daylight and, perhaps, a little acid for extra effect—and then slowly lowered into a vat of percolating, putrid, pathogen-loaded pollution, the object of which is to boil and maim and destroy at a glacial pace for maximum pain and suffering. For eternity. Just like the farcical, fictional hell that Bible-thumpers want you to believe awaits you when your memory and emotion and knowledge outlast your cells’ capacity to contain them.

Yeah. It would be an agonizing, torturous death, but boo fucking hoo. I don’t hate much, and I don’t relish the idea of causing anguish to anyone or anything other than wretched roaches or that fucktard, Charlie Sheen. But in this case, I’ll make an exception. If depression were personified, it would look like that Sheen asshole anyway. So. Yeah. 

And I say: cut off its balls. With nail clippers. Take your time. Snip. Snip. Snip. And then, sauté said nuts briskly in a broth of aged poodle shit and Munster. And anchovies. Then, purée until blenderific, and inject into the oral and nasal cavities in one fire-hosing flourish. Any proceeds that reappear in vomit must be re-injected! Waste not, want not! If the personification of debilitating despair chokes to death on its own pukefied testicles, at least wait until the misery of the suffocation and the very idea of what caused it to fully settle before resuscitating.

“Resuscitating?” you ask. “Why on earth would I revive that reptilian bastard once I’ve succeeded in annihilating it?” Well. There is so much more pain to be delivered! Why should the foul and feculent bane of my existence get such an easy out? It’s one of the same reasons that capital-punishment is so utterly stupid. The dumbshit who came up with the death penalty probably also invented depression. “I know,” said the dumbshit. “Let’s take criminals who rape and murder folks and give ‘em an I.V.! Oooo. And then, drip some prisoner-Valium into the line so they can relaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. And then, we’ll throw in a controlled substance that will gradually put ‘em to sleep forever. Yeah. Dropping off to sleep! THAT will teach those fucking criminals not to hurt other people to death.”

Depression does not deserve a gentle tucky-tuck. It merits at the very least a thorough fucking in all orifices with a California redwood. Because that is what the goddamned piece of shit does to me. All the time. It sneaks in and around and under and through; and it rips and shreds and rents and tears; and it slams and hacks and stabs and breaks; and it guts and shatters and crushes and extinguishes. Depression is the fucking devil. And I hate it.