Republic of Shalampax
An Inane Island in an Insane World

Frozen Putridsausage

February 23, 1997 was a sad day in Shalampax. On that day, a great Shalampaxian, Putridsausage, learned that he had contracted an agonizing, terminal, incurable blood disease. There were some available treatments that, while not a cure, promised to extend his life by up to 32 or 33 minutes, but they usually increased the patient's pain immensely during those 32 or 33 minutes and they worked only 10 percent of the time.

All of Shalampax was disconsolate when they heard the news because Putridsausage was a much revered person. It was he who discovered how to hijack satellite television signals and funnel them to Shalampax over the Internet connections that had been pirated from thousands of unsuspecting Wi-Fi router owners in Australia. (See Science: Communication.)

As sorrowful as Putridsuasage's fellow Shalampaxians were over his condition, Putridsausage himself was devastated by the news of his impending doom. He loved life. Well, that's not quite right. He didn't exactly love life. He loved television, which, for him, was pretty much the same thing.

Desperate for a solution that would save his life, and knowing that medical science wasn't going to come up with one in time to help him, he insisted that he be cryogenically preserved until someone discovers a cure for his ailment.

A crowd of Shalampaxians gathered to try to talk him out of it. "Everyone dies sometime," they said. "Even if someone eventually finds a remedy for your disease, thaws you and cures you, so what? By then the rent on that fabulous apartment of yours will be years overdue. Before you're anywhere close to paying off the debt you'll die of something else, possibly something even more excruciating than what you've got now. It's inevitable. As we said, everyone dies sometime. Worse, we have no experience with cryogenics here in Shalampax. How do you know you won't shatter into a thousand pieces when you're in a state of deep freeze? Besides, your wife is already sleeping around to audition potential second husbands, your kids have siphoned off your bank accounts to avoid the inheritance taxes and probate fees
, and we've raffled off your apartment. In short, you have nothing left to live for."

Despite the crowd's cajoling, reasoning, begging, pleading and whining, Putridsausage was adamant. After hours of back and forth arguments, his friends finally gave in to his wishes and ordered a cryogenic capsule. When it arrived, Putridsausage fearlessly climbed inside. His friends closed the door and switched on the capsule's refrigeration unit, successfully putting Putridsausage into cryonic suspension.

The next day, Shalampax experienced one of those glorious, warm, arid, sunny days that blesses the island only once every twenty or thirty years. Shalampaxians aren't normally superstitious, but Putridsausage's friends attributed the seemingly supernatural weather to the benevolence and divinity of Putridsausage's iced, but still heavenly spirit.

In Putridsausage's honor, his friends made a rare excursion outside to enjoy a raucous picnic. The event was a revelation. Up to that point, nobody realized that one could keep so many beers so cold for so long in an open cryogenic capsule.

Later that afternoon, with much alcohol-induced fanfare, Putridsausage was given a traditional burial at sea in the figuratively and literally coolest burial vessel in Shalampax's history — and likely it's future.
History: Post-1952

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