That's how I plan to go out. With my pants around my ankles, hands bound behind my back, a ball gag in my mouth, mysterious clamp marks on my nipples and ball sac, some random whore's (better yet, whores') saliva and traces of fecal matter drying up in my pubes and a pile of coke on the side table next to the comfy chair in which they find my carcass. Kind of how I expect Bill Clinton to go too.

I'm trying to decide whether it should be this weekend.