Utah executed Ronnie Lee Gardner by firing squad the other day, and everybody seems to be up in arms about this for some reason.
Big-titted girls from Meaning of Life: the future of execution
Utah executed Ronnie Lee Gardner by firing squad the other day, and everybody seems to be up in arms about this for some reason. Headlines say stuff like “World opinion condemns the US for a ‘savage’ execution?.” This article called it “America’s Silent Tragedy.” It’s a firing squad. It’s not silent. I haven’t heard of a less “silent” tragedy since I found out Fran Drescher got raped.
To compound the media’s panty-bunching, the Attorney General pissed everyone off and live-tweeted the execution. The media jumped all over this due to their colossal hard-on for the confluence of “Web 2.0″ and “someone saying stupid shit in an inappropriate venue 1.0.” The Examiner called tweeting the execution “barbaric,” which makes sense, because the Ostrogoths and Vandals were both known for their love of micro-blogging.
But when I first read about plans to do this a while back, I farted out a cloud of “So what?” and turned to the horoscopes. You know why? Because Ronnie Lee Gardner chose the firing squad. Utah didn’t make him do this. Leaving aside the boring issue of whether we should have a death penalty, there really isn’t anything to get upset about or argue here. Being executed by a firing squad was the last choice Ronnie got to make, the barbaric act would be to deny him his wish.
“But Quinn,” says some retarded strawman that I just made up, “won’t this create a slipper slope which will ultimately lead to the condemned choosing to be chased off of cliffs by the big-titted girls from Meaning of Life?” To which I reply authoritatively “No, that’s dumb. You’re dumb.”
Why not? Because we already let them choose their last meal. Do you know what happens if he asks for braised panda in a baboon-cum reduction? He gets told that they don’t have that in the kitchen and that he’ll have to choose something else. (For the record, I would eat nine plates of tikka masala so that my executioners were forced to clean up the messiest death-shit of all time.)
It’s not so hard to follow along with the spirit of a last request without chasing the concept into absurdity. All we’d have to do is entrust some bureaucratic nerd to compile a list of reasonable execution methods and let the prisoner pick his poison. This is the only choice you get to make before you die — heed the words of Fleetwood Mac and insist that you can go your own way.
“But what about the firing squad itself?” Alfred E. Strawman butts in, in his obnoxious made-up voice, “You’re turning five men into killers where previously it was only one who flipped the switch.” They actually had so many goons lining up to volunteer that they had to institute a lottery system to choose the lucky shooters. Those screws were tripping all over themselves for a chance to hunt the least dangerous game.
“Alright, I guess you’re right about everything and I’m a dumb idiot,” Strawman says dejectedly, “but what if we let the families of the victims choose the execution method?”
Shut the fuck up.
Send “Dear Street Carnage” letters to SBTVC@StreetCarnage.com