How To Kill Yourself If Trump Wins

A Post-Patriotic Suicide Explainer

Hail to the chief

If you’re reading this, Trump has won, and you’re probably wondering, “How do I kill myself?” Good question. The reasoning behind this decision is fairly self-explanatory, so let’s not dwell too much on the ‘why’ and focus more on the ‘how.’ Let’s not pretend this is some effective form of protest like the Burning Monk, because it’s clear that nobody cares and history will continue its grinding march towards its inexorable, bloody terminus. No, this is a purely selfish call that will do nothing to solve anything, but that’s alright. There’s nothing you could have done anyway.


Self-immolation is off the table. For one thing, it’s a little trite, don’t you think? Also, gasoline will be twenty bucks a gallon after we nuke the Saudis. How about drowning yourself in a bathtub full of lube? Due to the laws of supply and demand, prices will surely fall once all the gay men mass-emigrate to Spain. The slickness of the lube on the porcelain will prevent you from clawing your way to the surface, and back to the world where Trump has veto power.


Another terrible side-effect of Trump winning the election: the Republicans will have gained an even larger majority of Congress, and he’ll likely be making his unopposed appointment of his faithful labrador Spinee to the Supreme Court. Among the many terrible outcomes of these changes will be the relative ease of purchasing a firearm. So, go down to Walgreen’s, wade through the hordes of people begging for medication at the pharmacy, and pick out a handgun. It’ll be right between the reading glasses and the meth ingredients. Pay for it using your All-American Greenbacks, backed by the Trump Gold Standard, and walk your ass home.

These should be coming back into style soon enough

Now, there’s nothing terribly creative about just going into your room and shooting yourself. You don’t read The Shocker for middle-of-the-road suicide tips — there’s Cosmo for that. For this next part, you’re going to need a mattress and a room with concrete walls. Take your gun and hunker down behind the mattress, then shoot at one of the walls. Eventually, one of the bullets will ricochet around and hit you, hopefully in some vital area. Let’s not get too hung up on the symbolism of this, but the four walls represent the stupidity of the American electorate and the bullet represents your yearning to be free of this terrible, brutal world. The mattress represents false hope.


Move to Canada and freeze to death.

o, Trumpless land


If you’re like me, nobody ever took you hunting as a kid. Hell, I had a moral struggle over killing a mouse that kept sneaking into my living room. How are you going to kill a human being — and probably the human being you care most about? So, since you’re a wuss who LOVES themselves too much, you’re better off taking a passive route and let the hard work be done by a cold, unemotional force beyond your control.

Here are some options:

  1. The trains will surely be running on time. Find your local depot and try and catch an Iron Horse to the Final Destination. Hopefully the locomotive in question has a cow-catcher on the front so your body doesn’t get mangled beyond recognition, but I’m sure your mother can identify your birthmark either way.
  2. Thanks to THE SHOCKER’s new sponsorship deal with electricity, I am contractually obliged to recommend that you go out during a thunder storm and stand in an open field. Chances are low that lightning will strike (1 out of 960,000), but you might end up catching a nasty cold! Brrr!
  3. Sneak into the zoo and feed yourself to the animals. This one hearkens back to a time before mankind worried about elections and the influence of social media on our culture. There’s something wholesome about being torn limb from limb by a bored tiger.


Become a journalist and write a negative piece about Trump. Way ahead of you on this one! As I mentioned earlier, I’m too much of a namby-pamby to take an active role in my own death. This article should suffice to bring the secret police to my doorstep, and soon I’ll be bagged and tagged in a long low pit, my broken and contorted body sprinkled with quicklime. Sure, I’ll have to endure some light torture, but I’m a fragile writer and my heart will likely give out sooner rather than later. Thanks, sedentary lifestyle! I’m glad modernity prepared me well for my early death.

this is a very funny image

See ya on the other side!

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