Softening the blow, or blowing harder?

Doctor Gill : And the results are in!
Patient : And?
Doctor Gill : Well, based on the blood test, cat scans, two dozen needle samples, 1400 hair samples from every hair cluster on your body, twenty-eight nail clippings, sixty-two -
Patient : Just fucking tell me!
Doctor Gill : I'm sorry to tell you this, but, you'll be dead in not more than two weeks.

Doctor Gill's eyebrows raise at the same time his patient's does.

Patient : Wha- what?
Doctor Gill : Yeah, sorry about that.
Patient : Well, what is it? What's gonna kill me?
Doctor Gill : We're not sure. We've never seen anything like it.
Patient : What's it related to? Blood? Skin? WHAT GODDAMMIT! WHAT?
Doctor Gill : Calm down, buddy, you'll be fine.
Patient : But, you just said -
Doctor Gill : Yeah, I was joking.
Patient (Shocked): What? You asshole!
Doctor Gill : What? Come on, it was funny. You should've seen your face, it was-
Patient : You son of a bitch!
Doctor Gill : It was a joke!
Patient : You'll hear from my lawyer!

The patient storms out. The door slams shut behind him.

Doctor Gill : Well, now he'll never know about the cancer.

.....

Greeting fellow fuck-wits.

I have been pondering a question while taking massive dumps for the past week. When is it okay to soften the blow of bad news?

In the instance above, it was not okay. But, still for personal amusement it was hilarious, unfortunately my patient didn't see it that way. Hehehe.

So, if say, there's a person you know. We'll call him Bob. Bob Titts.
And you, through some divine method, discover that Mr. Titts has an ulcer in his colon. Not just any ulcer, this ulcer is placed nicely on a fist-sized tumor.

You know this information, and somehow, fail to find the appropriate time or situation to tell Bob Titts. Bob's mental and physical condition is now suddenly tossed in to your hands. Why do you have to deal with it? What the fuck?

Now, to make things more difficult, Bob's fiance, let's say her name is Jane, Jane Vulva (though, she used to be known as Jeremy Shaft, but, you'll tell Bob about that later.) If Bob heard the news from Jerem - sorry, Jane, he may take it better. That makes sense, yes?

What would you do? You and Bob Titts go back fifteen years. Highschool, prom, first gang bang, first time getting gang banged, all the good stuff. Jane and you go back a to a few years before he/she and Bob met, you know, when she was still Jeremy. Who would you tell first? Well, to save you valuable thinking time, I went and thought out three possible out comes.

OUTCOME ONE

You tell Jane.

Jane tells Titts.

Jane : You have an ulcer in your butt, honey.
Bob : Butt honey?
Jane : Err... Yeah, and there's a big ass tumor attached to it.
Bob : Butt.... Honey...

(I may have forgotten to mention that Bob is slightly retarded.)

Jane : It could possibly kill you, baby.
Bob : I see. Thank you for telling me.
Jane : We'll get through this. I love you.
Bob : I love you too, honey.
Jane : Too ... Honey...

OUTCOME TWO

You tell Bob.

You : Hey, Bob.
Bob : What's up.
You : Remember your pet dog, Dragonshit?
Bob : Yeah, I loved that dog. He was and forever will be the coolest dog on the planet.
You : Remember when he died? We found him under the tire, his stomach squeezed out of his ass, fucking brains all over the place, his tongue unrolled next to what was left of his head.
Bob : ... Yeah... I -
You : His intestines spread out. At least forty something feet of it. That's how we found out it was a girl, because all the puppies she was gonna have were thrown around like RAG DOLLS! REMEMBER?!!
Bob : Yeah, I -
You : Dent in my fucking bumper.
Bob : What? Dent in your -
You : Never mind that, what I am about to tell you will be less painful than that.

Bob finds out the truth and decides he will live his life as best he can before he dies a horrible and slow and painful death. Forever pondering the mystery of Dragonshit's death.

OUTCOME THREE

You tell Jere-- fuck, JANE.
Jane can't stand it.

You : Yeah, he's probably going to die.
Jane : How can this be? How could he do this to me?!
You : Well, he's not doing anything to you, per se...
Jane : That sonuvabitch! I hope he dies.
You : He will in time.
Jane : I hate him! I can't stand it! This is so bizarre! How could he not tell me?
You : He doesn't know.
Jane : He kept it a secret! We're going to get married!
You : He doesn't know!
Jane : That rotten bastard!
You : You're not listening you dumb bitch!
Jane : I hate secrets!
You : You haven't told him you're a guy!
Jane : That part of me died years ago in 'Nam!
You : You've never been to 'Nam!
Jane : Besides that's not a secret! You know!
You : But, he doesn't!
Jane : I'm not listening! I'm not listening!
You : You have to-- ahh... fuck it.

So, now you have to tell Bob that he has a tumor with an ulcer and his fiance is leaving him because of it.

Bob : Hey.
You : Jane is a guy.
Bob : What?
You : I thought you should know before the wedding, remember my friend Jeremy? Well... yeah.
Bob : Are you fucking kidding me?
You : No. AND.... you have an ulcer in your butt on a giant tumor. You're going to die.
Bob : What?
You : You heard me.
Bob : This is too much man! Too much to handle all at once!
You : Well, at least you know that Jane really loved you.
Bob : I guess that's a little comforting.
You : Yeah, but don't get excited she's leaving you.
Bob : What??
You : She can't stand your ass tumor. Specifically the ulcer on it.
Bob : I'm freaking out! I'm fucking freaking out!
You : It's okay , buddy. I got something that'll cheer you up. It'll be less painful.
Bob : Yeah?
You : Remember your dog Dragonshit?

The conversation continues...

The next day you are at Bob Titts' funeral. He got frustrated trying to open a can of baked beans. Got out his gun, shot the can open. He thought: that was fun. He put the gun to his head... He held it there, thinking if it would hurt.

He thought long and hard. He realized it would hurt. He put the gun down and grabbed a bent piece of the can and slit his throat. He stumbled around your kitchen, that's right, he's your house-mate, spraying blood all over your new cupboards. In that time, he noticed that his bleeding throat hurt like hell. So, he grabbed the gun and shot himself twice in the foot to distract him from the pain. Then, he hopped and slipped on his own blood and slammed against the fridge and the loose cutlery fell off of it and stabbed him repeatedly. Eventually, after about forty minutes, he managed to get the gun up his head with three fingers missing. Before he could pull the trigger, he slipped again, fell thirteen stories to his 'untimely' death. Meanwhile, you and Jane were exchanging butt plugs via penis in your room.

Guilty yet?

.....

Well, those are my three outcomes, please, comment and write your own. I am curious to see how you would do it.

Oh and remember to

~love yourself~
the way Bob Titts loved Dragonshit, the dog, before you brutally murdered it.