Who will profiteers hit next, once smokers disappear

On televisions everywhere… it’s impossible that you’ve missed them—the commercials currently airing which depict the consequences of smoking cigarettes.

First came the elderly gentleman hooked up to an oxygen machine gasping for each and every breath.

Next came Ronald Martinez, who missed out on two huge career dreams (baseball and swimming) due to the tracheotomy hole in his throat caused by smoking cigarettes.

The latest shows Mr. Lab Coat telling the young mom that she has lung cancer, followed by her having to share this with her young children.

Horrifying.

What, exactly, could be the motive for these threats?

Just ask Katie Couric and she’ll tell you about 1-866-NY-QUITS…

Follow the Money folks. 866 sells stuff. Lots of stuff, according to their web site, to save us from ourselves and our nasty habit.

Why, they promise results from stop-smoking patches, gum, and personal coaches, and my favorite, Chantrix, which may cause suicidal tendencies as well as cardiovascular disease, further complicated by horrendous nightmares.

Here we go again.

I’m not sure about the rest of the smoking criminals, but nary a one of these commercials makes me want to quit smoking.

In fact, it makes me want to pay a personal visit to 866 and its writers. I would love to delve into their personal lives which would no doubt reveal lifestyles that are not so squeaky clean.

Maybe share a nice little vodka martini or ten at happy hour which assists in the swallowing of the pill which needs to be taken to combat the side effects of the other pill ingested at lunchtime, washed down with a couple of short draft beers.

Not to mention the bacon wrapped twinkie and six candy bars cleverly disguised as a mid-afternoon pick-me-up.

Let’s face it—we all adore stories of personal struggle which we all want to believe is followed by reward.

People set up arbitrary hurdles just to jump over them and feel better about themselves.

Now we can convince ourselves that life choices are making us something other than miserable.

It’s a very difficult road that leads to personal improvement, and it’s just so darn easy to point the fickle finger of fate at someone whose vice differs from yours.

Why stop at smoking? Why not show, in detail, the slow painful death that’s sure to manifest from diabetes?

Maybe a detailed look at an O.R. team performing surgery, lopping off one digit at a time until the patient, whose only crime was a yen for food and lots of it, becomes something that can be used for home plate?

Or the young aspiring football player whose head was thrashed about in his helmet so many times that he now resides in a nursing home, drooling and unresponsive with an irreversible TBI? Or worse yet, dead.

Sudden heart attack—overly competitive coach wouldn’t let the kid have a sip of water when it was a thousand degrees outside and made him run extra laps to teach him about stamina?

Geeze people, there’s over 1,001 ways to die. Pick your poison say I.

But you folks at 866—you’re just ridiculous. Don’t you dare threaten me with longevity, cuz there ain’t no way, no how, that I will choose Life if I’m in that position.

Stop acting like it’s your choice how long I’ll struggle for air—not happening.

This much I do know to be true: If I ever decide to give up my little buddies it won’t be suicide I’m contemplating. It will be murder, and you would NOT want to be in my path of angry destruction.

Then I’ll quietly languish in my jail cell, surrounded by the comforts provided by the State to which I’ve paid more than my fair share of taxes on my CIGARETTES.

This is just my way of paying it forward, and you’d think non-smokers everywhere would be kissing our butts for the tremendous contributions we make to the State, lowering their property taxes and other financial burdens.

Yeah, you’re welcome. Now get off our backs and mind your own habit.