We all know we’re going to die someday, and we’ve all thought about it. What? This is news to you? Well, let’s clear the slate then.
1. There’s no Santa Claus,
2. The Easter Bunny was your pervert uncle
3. Jesus Christ is a myth created by the church to further piss off the atheists.
As I was saying, we know death is the inevitable truth, but have you ever wondered how it will happen? Does anybody ever think he or she will be the one found spread all over Missouri because a date went horribly wrong? I doubt it. I’ll net most people imagine themselves lying comfortably in bed, surrounded by family, loved ones. Even your asshole neighbour drops by with a tear in his eye, and the wrench he borrowed six years ago.
You gasp your last few breaths, break wind (because who in their right mind is going to call a dying man on that? You think they’re going to crinkle their noses and wave their hands around hollering “For the love of Christ…what the hell did you eat?” No, death-bed farts are a definite pass), and wait for the grim reaper to usher you along. Pretty standard shit, I’d say.
My own thoughts of death are divided by decade.
In My 50’s…
I’m fearless about pushing buttons (people’s and general machinery). There’s a good chance I will be the jerk in the office who says,”I wonder what happens when you push…” and a huge bat swings around the photocopier, cracks me in the head, and in the stuporous aftermath – just as I’m trying to process what she happened, an automated hand comes out and pushes me into the industrial paper shredder.
Or suicide, but not likely.
In My 60’s…
This is the decade where I’m most likely to die of electrocution. I’ll be out for a walk, too damned lazy to change my adult diaper, and accidentally step on a live wire. Now, the live wire alone would probably do the trick, but there’s something to be said about dying in public with a heavily saturated diaper.
Or suicide. It’s unlikely because there’s a fair bit of planning that must go into that.
In My 70’s…
This is the interesting decade where I will probably start losing my mind. It will be something Alzheimer-esque involving me, no pajama bottoms, and an old-timey carwash. The nurses at the “home” will be on full patrol, frantically searching for me while I beeline it to Jack’s Scrub and Buff Auto Wash to order lavender tea.
Or suicide…but, again, highly unlikely, especially if I can’t work out a plan around my naps, and reruns of The Big Bang Theory.
In My 80’s…
Seriously? If I make it this long, I want to go out with a bang, something staged and spectacular. Maybe I’ll try to explain. To my grandchildren what The Muppet Show was about and, to give them something they’ll never forget (or recover from), I’ll stuff myself into a live cannon to be shot clear across town, like Gonzo did.
Or suicide…screw it. At 80, I’m not doing the Reapers job for him.
In My 90’s
Nope. I can’t imagine making it to 90. I mean, drink it all up ladies and gentlemen. You’re getting maybe 30 good years out of me, so listen up. And read my books, because by the time I almost-make-it-to-90, I will have written several.
It’s either going to be a ridiculous accident caused by excessive benzodiazepine usage or, suicide. Don’t panic everyone. Geez. I’m just