I just keep picturing a scenario something like this:-
Flash forward to the twilight of Steve’s years. So, not all that far forward, then.
Gold-Digging Younger Wife: … and so, M’lud, since the terrible freak accident with the sandwich toaster, my poor husband has been bedridden and unable to communicate. (*To me: *) Say something to the nice judge, dear.
Me: …mff flnk ngh wbbl… (Tr: I’m fine, I’ve just got my teeth stuck in this toffee.)
GDYF: You can see his terrible inarticulacy here and now, or alternatively read any of his posts on the Straight Dope Message Board.
Judge: He does indeed present an awful picture, Mrs Wright, but then again he always did. Perhaps we should hear from his doctor whether his condition is irreversible…?
Dr Lovetruncheon: I can certify to the court that Mr Wright has no prospects of recovery. Also, the hospital needs his bed. Also, his shapely, inventive and astonishingly flexible young widow, err, wife and I need a bed as well, although for different reasons.
Me: …gnfff hplgh mmdf… (Tr.: You bastard!)
GDYW: Through my closeness to my dear, dear, heavily insured husband, I am able to translate his incoherent mumblings. He is pleading, m’lud, pleading for release from this living hell.
Me: …spkhhh fsss knnff ddkkgf … (Tr.: Help, they’re trying to kill me!)
GDYW: And he wants me and Dr Lovetruncheon to sell his collection of grotty science fiction paperbacks and buy a water bed.
Judge: Mrs Wright, I am convinced by your eloquent pleas and your astoundingly tight and low-cut dress. Your husband shall be set free from his misery forthwith.
GDYW: Thank you, m’lud. (*To Dr Lovetruncheon: *) OK, honey, get the shotgun.
I do have objections to this scenario, and I’m not convinced they’re religious.