Lee Bollinger: If I’m Going to Donate My Organs, They Better Go to Someone Hot

My organs are not just some pig slop to be shoved into the disgusting body of some homely Upstate New York tax attorney. I’m Lee Bollinger, dammit.

I went to the DMV last week to renew my license. I haven’t been driving much, but I hated my license photo and wanted to retake it. I was dead-focused on rehearsing my smolder for the camera, so when the DMV bureaucrat zombie asked the question I was jolted out of my trance: “Do you want to be an organ donor?”

With no time to ruminate, I agreed. But now I regret it. I shouldn’t have checked the box. Because I only want to donate my organs if they go to someone hot.

If I had a say in who got my organs, I might be more enthusiastic about signing away my still-beating heart. If you could make sure my kidney would press up against Margot Robbie’s bladder all day long for years to come, maybe I could die in peace. If you could guarantee that my large intestine would help Michael Phelps digest his daily 10,000 calories and keep those abs rock-hard, I’d rip that thing out on the spot.

I was the defendant on the most pivotal affirmative action cases of our era. I didn’t endure a shitstorm from Upper Peninsula Michigan racists angry that their Wonder-Bread kids couldn’t get into the University of Michigan, just for my pancreas to end up in those same flavorless Midwestern walking bread loaves.

I know op-eds are supposed to anticipate objections, but I can’t imagine that anyone reasonable would think that it’d be acceptable for my organs to help some Six continue living a life of mediocrity. I think everyone would agree that it’d be better to let my insides rot on a cold metal table.  

As a world-renowned legal scholar and attorney, I’m aware of the importance of clarity. For that reason, I’ve compiled a comprehensive list of people I deem worthy of receiving my organs in the event of my death: Kylie Minogue; Jennifer Lawrence, as long as she doesn’t gain any weight; blonde Emma Stone; Dwayne the Rock Johnson; Rob Kardashian, pre-2011; Blue Ivy Carter-Knowles; the Jolie-Pitt kids, including the adopted ones; Amal Clooney, provided she wins the Elgin Marbles case; the strongest professor in the Department of Middle Eastern, South Asian, and African Studies, as decided by a round-robin tournament of duels; and myself, if somehow that’s an option.

And to be even clearer, I’ve also decided to name people who, under no circumstances, should receive any part of my body, functional or not: Bob Dylan, because frankly I’m a little peeved that he won the Nobel Prize for Literature; that student who sat in the eighth row of my class during the fall semester of 2011 and asked to use the restroom during the final exam – I mean, control your damn bladder; Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Law ‘59; Xi Jinping, current President of the People’s Republic of China; any student majoring in Psychology or Economics; and Deantini.

As a first-amendment scholar, free speech is dear to my heart. But that doesn’t mean I want my vocal cords to help some sallow idiot spout dumb bullshit. My organs, my choice.