I would rather stuff myself in a duffle bag and be dragged around by a homeless man for weeks.

I have to admit I was slightly pissed when I heard the Osama bin laden news. Totally ruined my plan. I wanted to find Osama bin Laden. I was going to wait a few years until he got a little older and frailer. Then I figured I’d use my wit and charm and love of sand and heat to slither my way through the desert looking for clues. Once I found him, I’d tell him a bunch of jokes about how Americans think the Middle East is round and how American women are as loose as burkas. We’d bond over  homemade moonshine and his secret love of The Simpsons. Then he’d tell me all his secrets and I’d totally seduce him and take naked pictures of him and choke him to death during some crazy sex fantasy (something tells me Osama appreciated violent sex). This would have required I add a number to my growing list of sexploits, but I figured I’d be doing it for the love of my country and because I thought a public humiliation must accompany the death. Showing the world an Osama penis seemed like good revenge for 9/11.

Anyway, whatever. America has squashed my dreams. But I realized yesterday that the main reason I planned such an escapade was not to defend the West from the wrath of the world’s most dangerous terrorist. It was far more selfish than that. Really, I just want my own Wikipedia page.

I need another cause. I must get to Wikipedia. I’ve already tried to stop Hollywood women from wearing skirts that almost show their labia, but that epidemic is far beyond my reach. I’ve tried to stop breast cancer, but Susan G. Komen sent me an irate email letting me know that she’s on that topic.

My new cause is even more important than all those less important things. And that is: End suicide jokes. Lots of hyperboles are in fashion at the moment. There’s the “I just peed a little,” which is popular. I’ve heard Ellen say it. And then there’s the “I just threw up in my mouth,” which I’ve heard everyone say.
The worst well-worn hyperbole is the suicide joke, which unabashedly appears in conversations about relationships all over the world.
People think it’s really such a hoot to say, ‘That date was so bad that I wanted to kill myself.’ Or the teenage favorite, ‘I would rather die.’
There’s also the one with the finger-made gun pointing at the temple, often used in long meetings. And the more updated finger-made gun pointing at the temple plus a mimicked blood squirt from other temple. For some reason, these death jokes are such an integral part of popular culture these days. I know this because my mom uses them. She’s the last person to hear about things, so if she’s doing it, everyone’s doing it. She called me just the other day to tell me about a new crazy song, Who Let the Dogs Out?

My therapist even did the gun-to-the-temple thing.
While we were talking about my father’s suicide.
Swear.
It’s so popular that people don’t even realize they’re doing it.
BUT THEY’RE DOING IT!
Everyone’s doing it.

But, guys, can you maybe stop? Please?  I highly doubt you really want to off yourself because of a bad date or because you were caught in the snow or because you ran out of olives or because you got your period in your white shorts or even because you crashed your new car. If you really and truly would rather die than study lame pie charts in a meeting or go to Disneyland with your family (although I do understand how trying Disneyland can be), then your life sucks and you should move to a yurt and try to figure everything out.  Really, I think you’re just trying to be creative by using a cliche. It’s not working. It’s not a crazy exaggeration if everyone’s using it!

One in every sixty-four people has a friend or loved one who’s committed suicide because about one-hundred people kill themselves per day. PER DAY! That’s a lot of people. Tons. And each time you point a fake gun at your head, it’s reminding the ‘survivors’ that someone they love actually did point a gun at their head (or the equivalent) one day. And it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if that joke weren’t so popular, but now I’m reminded of suicide in pretty much every conversation I have with anyone. Today my friend did the fake gun, and when he thought he needed more emphasis, he went back for a slashing-of-the-throat motion. I’m going to start asking people to simply end every conversation with ‘Hey, remember that time your dad killed himself?’ Because that’s what it does. For me and for one in sixty-four people.

But don’t stop with those jokes just for me and my Wikipedia movement. Do it so you’re not cliche. Although there’s no such thing as a free lunch for bulls in china shops and men who are worth their weight in gold, cliches make you sound just like everyone else. And you don’t want to be like everyone else. You’re an individual. With a life! A life worth keeping as long as it doesn’t entail a horrible date or Disneyland.

Try these more creative versions instead:
*It was so bad I wanted to cut off my nipples and sew them to my eyelids.
*It was so horrible that I wanted to roll around in elephant poo, pull out all my fingernails, and then go to the dentist.
*I would have rather watched ninety-year-olds in an orgy for seventy-two hours straight while wearing a diaper and standing on the shoulders of the tallest man in the world.

Don’t be a cliche. Do it for you. Do it for me. Do it for Wikipedia.