DEATHSTYLES
I AIN’T GOING OUT LIKE THAT
words MARGARET APPEL art LISA INOUE
Oregon Voice’s resident selfcentered bitch Margaret Appel rambles about the worst and best ways to die imaginable.
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he worst death imaginable is inspired by a true story, a steamy legend in bestiality that you may be familiar with. In 2005 an engineer from Enumclaw, Washington named Kenneth Pinyan, also known as “Mr. Hands,” also known as creepiest dude ever, died by way of anal horse sex. The lucky stallion was well hung, leaving Mr. Hands with some ruptured organs and acute peritonitis, and leaving the mysterious cameraman wondering why the hell he agreed to videotape it. Mr. Hands really didn’t want to go to the emergency room (I think we know why), so he hung out for a few hours with severe abdominal pain before dying. Now, had he died instantly, I don’t know that I could say this is the worst imaginable death. But Mr. Hands had to sit there for hours in extreme pain thinking about the fact that he was dying because he forced a horse to give it to him in some random stable, and that somewhere out there a video of the whole ordeal was now in existence. Now, to make this the absolute worst death imaginable, maybe add a little background music to set the mood — say, Clay Aiken’s rendition of “O Holy Night” on repeat? And rather than an anonymous friend videotaping the unspeakable act, let’s make it M. Night Shyamalan. Oh, and eating some Café Siena just before diving into the videotaped bestial-icious death-sex would definitely be the clincher here. To sum up, worst death ever: Café Siena, followed by fatal
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I AM GOING OUT LIKE THIS
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anal penetration from stallion penis to the holiday musical stylings of Clay Aiken, all made into a blockbuster film produced by M. Nigh Shyamalan. If there’s anything I hope to accomplish in this lifetime, it is not to go out like that.
o how am I hoping it all ends? This is tough to say, as the cinematic world has provided me with a lot of inspiring material. I like the idea of going out with a gravity/science-defying bang, like the unforgettable Scanners head explosion scene, or the alien chest-pop that gruesomely took the life of some guy in Alien who was just trying to eat his dinner. But I suppose there’s no getting around the fact that everyone’s ideal death fantasy is personal and unique to them, so allow me to share mine with you — I mean, since you’ve already read this far. In perfect Scarface fashion, I’ll begin by lifting my powdered nose from the giant pile of blow atop my fine mahogany desk, only to admire my latest houseguest Andre 3000, whom I’ve just had sexual intercourse with. His crazed and obviously less desirable girlfriend hires two assassins that chase me across a gorgeous meadow, shooting countless bullets that I continue to dodge effortlessly, still making time to push adorable meadow children out of harm’s way. As with any chase scene of this nature, we approach a tall cliff with an angry sea whisping below. As I reach the cliff’s edge, I stumble upon a large ghettoblaster circa 1986. I pick it up and press play, majestically gazing into a well-timed sunset — I know what I must do. As the chorus of Dio’s “Holy Diver” thunders from the great stereo, I hold it high above my head and leap into the foamy abyss. I then enjoy my time in the afterlife as an upper-middle class house cat.