I was sitting around the other night, pondering death, mortality and other cheery subjects, when I realized: I don’t want to die on the crapper.
I mean, it’s a damned embarrassing way to be found, isn’t it? There you are, straining, when you strain too hard and burst a blood vessel in your head. Two hours later, somebody finds you with your pants around your ankles and a wad of toilet paper in your hand. I’m sure it happens more often than you think, but I wouldn’t want it to be me. Me? If I had my druthers, I’d want to be found sitting peacefully, a beer in one hand and a book in the other. That is, if I don’t buy the farm rescuing fifteen helpless orphans from the burning wreckage of a school bus.
And then there comes the disposal question. How do you want your remains to spend eternity? In a pine box? In an urn on somebody’s mantel? I feel I have to defer to George Carlin here – I want to be blown up. Just stuff ten pounds of TNT into my gut, light the fuse and drop me over a stretch of uncharted wilderness somewhere. From dust, to dust, or something like that. Bear chow – that’s me.
I know, it’s not particularly cheery, especially around this time of year. But these thoughts do arise, don’t they? It doesn’t mean they’re any less valid, does it? What do you think?
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