By Rona Ambrose, Minister of Health
I was sitting on a panel discussing assisted suicide the other day when I came to a startling realization. I’ve been totally gypped. At first I thought, wow, minister of health. Yeah, baby.
But then it hit me: we’re all just fucking worm food. Even if I’m the best health minister this country has ever had, every single one of the 35 million people I am elected to serve, and all of their offspring are all going to die.
I can just imagine how it went down when the prime minister decided to give me this fucking futile portfolio.
“Hm, who do we give the health portfolio to? You know, the one with all the human suffering that we are ultimately powerless to stop? Let’s give that one to Rona. She’s been a good cabinet member, so instead of rewarding her with a portfolio where she can meet famous people or actually effect change, let’s give her one with the sole purpose of delaying the fucking inevitable. She’ll love that.”
At the end of the day, no one can help you. The only truth is that when the end comes, as it will, we are all desperately, unalterably alone, screaming into a silent void absent of any purpose or compassion. The result of a random subatomic accident so long ago as to be impossible to comprehend.
I know what you’re thinking. But what about cold and flu season Rona? The flu is meaningless, especially yours. In another six billion years there’s not even going to be a universe, never mind a sun or an earth.
So yeah, maybe I don’t really feel like spending my days worrying about a salmonella outbreak, when all I would be doing is delaying the cold hand of death from reaching out and grabbing us all by the neck. Why should I spend my nights and weekends making sure your kid isn’t obese, when he’ll probably just get hit by a bus walking to the gym.
So if you guys need me I think I’m going to leave work a little early today. I’m going to go eat some fatty foods, or maybe try heroin for the first time. Whatever. You guys do what you want. Maybe take some vitamins or some shit.
