>>> Bang for Your Buck March 18, 2007
By staff writer David Nelson
Essential New Word of the Week: bagsmokes (definition hint: cheaper by the gross)
Just for a moment, I want you to imagine youāre a hardened criminal. Itās not really that hard. In fact, I just got through kicking a policemanās corpse for 45 straight minutes in Grand Theft Auto to put myself in the right mood. Now, pretend that youāve been caught, and sentenced to death. Thatās probably a little tougher to imagine, especially if youāre not from Texas.
No, itās downright impossible. Being on Death Row must be the Ultimate MindfuckTM. How can anyone get through the day knowing that heās not going to be around to vote for the next American Idol? Or that heāll never again experience bumper cars, or slot machines, or blowjobs? Iām surprised more cons donāt appeal their death sentences on the grounds that theyāll never find out what happens to Harry Potter.
If youāve got an unwanted date with the Reaper, thereās really only one thing left to look forward to: the last meal. Itās a tradition thatās been around as long as capital punishment itself. In fact, the Aztecs fed human sacrifices for a year before tossing them into volcanoes and whatnot. Say what you want about Mexicans, at least theyāll never let you go hungry.
“In all likelihood, Gacy probably wasnāt too worried about his cholesterol, but I still need to be.”
In pre-modern Europe, the last meal was a highly symbolic social act. In accepting the food, the condemned tacitly took an oath of truce and disavowed all vengeance. In other words, gimme some good eats, and I wonāt haunt you when I become a spooky ghost or unkillable zombie. And by that logic, the better the grub, the safer youāll all be. Better not skimp on the Parmesan cheese.
So, last meals have always been extravagant. These days, itās less about superstition and more about keeping the convict placid until heās a harmless pile of crispy remains. But thereās something about the whole concept that remains morbidly fascinating. If you knew you could experience the sense of taste one last time, what would you choose?
In order to better understand the mindset of the condemned, I decided to make myself a last meal. Well, hopefully not a last meal, but a duplicate of what an actual convict once chose. I like food and all, but I want to appreciate it as only a death row inmate can. Also, Iāve been living on meta-food for a week now, and I think itās time for something other than soy sauce and lemon wedges.
The first step was to do some research. Whose last meal should I recreate? Fortunately for me, the sum total of human knowledge can now be found on Wikipedia, so ideas were only a click away. And with another click, I could have all the ingredients delivered right to my door! But for a 10 dollar delivery charge, those fuckers at Grocery Gateway better pray I donāt get a stay of execution.
If I collected those controversial trading cards depicting serial killers, John Wayne Gacy would be the pride of my collection. Not only did he rape and murder 33 boys, he also made a generation of kids grow up with a crippling fear of clowns. Luckily, Americaās most progressive pornographers are working hard to undo that damage.
His death sentence was a media sensation that featured execution parties, and an awesomely-named āGacyās Day Parade.ā But what of his last meal? Gacy chose fried chicken, fried shrimp, French fries, and fresh strawberries. Not a bad feedinā, but perhaps a little mundane. In all likelihood, Gacy probably wasnāt too worried about his cholesterol, but I still need to be. So, Iāll take a pass on Gacyās Gastronomic Gala.
Victor Feguer was the last person put to death in the state of Iowa. Meanwhile, lawful citizens of Iowa continue to die a little each day. Feguer was sentenced for luring a doctor to his death in order to gain access to any drugs he was carrying. I sure hope he scored some kickass Tylenol, because he was hanged soon after.
For his last meal, Victor ate… get this… a single olive. I realize that sounds kind of fruity, but I suppose the mechanics of the gallows make one want to eat light. That said, olives taste like horrible little snot bombs and are enjoyed only by gay Greek sailors. Thanks, but no thanks, Victor Feguer.
Timothy McVeigh, domestic terrorist and frequent argument against the merit of racial profiling, was put to death in 2001. For his last meal, McVeigh indulged in two pints of Ben & Jerryās mint chocolate chip ice cream. For what itās worth, Iām sure Ben and Jerry, the gentle hippies of the ice cream world, disapproved strongly.
No matter where you stand on capital punishment, you have to agree this was a pretty lame choice. Itās not a last meal, itās a guilt-ridden evening snack for two fat chicks who want to gossip about their friends and watch Sex and the City. I admit, I like ice cream too, but the last thing Iād want before a lethal injection is a lethal case of brainfreeze.
Ted Bundy, not to be confused with any fictional shoe salesmen or hyper-obese wrestling stars, was one of the most notorious figures in U.S. history. Often described as an educated and charming young man, Bundy was a true rapistās rapist. Much the same way Nick Gaudio is a writerās writer. But all that personal magnetism was no match for the electricity they zapped the miserable bastard with. Bundy, that is, not Gaudio.
As a last meal, Bundy was offered steak, eggs over easy, hash browns, and coffee. Amazingly, he turned it down! Thatās just the kind of greasy, manly repast Iād enjoy, before I spent the next four hours on the toilet. So perhaps Bundy was saving his dignity from a messy, electro-fecal explosion. And if this last meal wasnāt good enough for a sociopathic killer, itās not good enough for me. I have my dignity too.
Clearly, I wasnāt getting anywhere researching the last meals of these A-list criminals. It was time to take a trip into the minor leagues of serial murder. Surely one of Americaās lesser-known criminals died so that I might know what to cook for dinner.
William Bonin, a.k.a. āThe Freeway Killerā chose to end his life with two pepperoni and sausage pizzas, three servings of coffee ice cream, and fifteen cans of Coca-Cola. Tempting, but Iām pretty sure he was trying to pre-emptively kill himself via a caffeine overdose. Either that, or give himself the super-strength needed to punch through his cell walls and escape.
Edward Hartmann, a North Carolina inmate, ordered Greek salad, linguini with white clam sauce, garlic bread, and cheesecake with cherry topping. This is a classy choice; one Iād be proud to make my last meal. On the other hand, the N.C. prison system isnāt exactly footing the bill for my dinner. Iāll just give Hartmann a nod of approval and look for something cheaper.
Harold Lloyd McElmurry of Oklahoma made the puzzling choice of a pint of chicken livers, cottage cheese, and one raw white onion. What a retard. This guy must have gone out with the worst breath imaginable. I heard the Listerine people held a candlelight vigil for his release, but to no avail.
I was getting discouraged. For every 10 cons I researched, 9 of them had similar last meals: fried chicken, gravy, chocolate cake… Americaās criminals may be geniuses at body disposal and/or blaming society, but theyāre pretty uninspiring when it comes to last meal selection. I was about to give up entirely, when one last name caught my eye.
David Larry Nelson. Executed October 9, 2003 in the state of Alabama. Surely, this had to be a sign from above. Youād think God would be more concerned with the AIDS crisis than with telling third-rate humor columnists what to have for dinner. Nevertheless, I made up my mind on the spot, whatever my namesake chose for his last meal, I would have the very same.
Moments later, I knew: My dinner that night would consist of a fried bologna sandwich with lettuce and tomato, fries, and a Sprite. Pretty ghetto for a last meal, but I made myself a promise. I popped out to the store to pick up the cheapest possible selection of everything I needed.
Fried bologna is something Iāve not had the pleasure of trying before. Bologna is kind of like the Batman of lunchmeats. Itās very mysterious, you canāt quite get a fix on its true identity, and somehow, you know itās capable of doing you harm. I was somewhat leery of frying it; who knows how the application of heat might change its molecular structure?
Turns out I was right to be nervous; after about 2 minutes in the pan, my smoke alarm started screaming. Since I was preparing to imagine myself on Death Row, this wasnāt exactly a welcome development. Doing my best to ignore the siren of impending doom, I prepped the lettuce and tomato as the fries were cooking.
The tears falling out of my eyes told me something: Either my compassion for victims of capital punishment had moved me to cry, or else frying nitrate-laden cold cuts is a good way to release toxic chemicals into my apartment. I removed the fries from the oil, assembled the sandwich, and plated everything with impeccable detail.
I approached each bite as if it was the last thing that would ever cross my lips. As it turns out, this was an entirely reasonable precaution. Just like some poisonous insects/frogs are courteous enough to warn predators with vibrant color patterns, the seared lunchmeat was polite enough to tip me off with a pungent chemical taste and a numbing effect on my tongue.
It might be my inferior, non-criminal palate talking, but eating this meal was an exercise in pure willpower. And after I battled my way through this salty torture, I still had a pile of undercooked, oily fries to look forward to. Of course itās my own fault, but if this were my actual last meal, Iād feel seriously ripped off.
But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The Sprite sat nearby, ready to quench my thirst and send me into the great beyond with a lemony-lime kick to the taste buds. It twinkled in the sunlight, like a diamond forged by angels. And after one sip, both my sins and the taste of Z-grade meat were washed away. At that moment, I knew I could die a happy man.
So, my last meal was largely a flop, but at least I learned a very valuable lesson about food, if not life itself: To truly appreciate the good, you have to experience the very worst. Itās a lesson that I hope isnāt lost on any current Death Row inmates. When the world is your oyster, donāt trade it away for fried bologna.
Essential New Word of the Week:
bagsmokes [ābƦgsmoks] pl. n
Iāve got some friends who enjoy the fine taste and aroma of tobacco. Actually, calling them heavy smokers would be like saying Meat Loaf has put on a few pounds. Iāll bum one if and when the mood strikes me, which is to say, all the time. They never seem to mind. Yes, theyāre very generous, but it also helps that they buy cigarettes by the metric ton. Itās the natives that make this possible, thanks to a product we call ābagsmokes.ā
Indians are often known for selling cheap poor-quality smokes, but in Ontario, thereās no packaging, no Surgeon Generalās warning, and no cardboard. Just a huge Ziploc bag stuffed to the brim with cigarettes. The sight of it never fails to elicit a laugh. Of course, that laughter turns into a persistent, hacking cough more often than not.