They say that when you die the first
thing that happens is that you crap yourself. After all the heartache and
indignity that we endure throughout our lives, to think that this is the thanks
we get at the moment of our demise really pisses me off, if you’ll pardon the
poor choice of words. I don’t understand why people get so concerned over
issues like infant mortality and crib death. At least babies are wearing diapers
when they die, so they’re covered, so to speak, when the inevitable bowel spilling
occurs at check-out time.
This is not how I want to go out.
Either I go without food and water for a week before I die or I come up with
some other plan. When I die I have decided that I want fireworks to come
shooting out of my intestinal tract. It doesn’t have to be an entire Fourth of
July celebration; maybe something like a boat flare would be more appropriate.
Or maybe just a sparkler pops out, or better yet, one of those birthday candles
that stays lit even when you try to blow it out. That would be hilarious.
Balloons would be a really nice touch, but I can only imagine that what they
would be filled with—considering their source—would take the life out of the
party if some little kid accidentally popped one. I have no first-hand
knowledge as to whether or not these gas-filled balloons present a fire hazard
even though I went to scout camp when I was a kid.
Is there any way possible for me to
salvage even a shred of respectability from an essay that touches on such
disturbing matters as incontinence at the time of death, crib death, and fart
balloons? My intentions were good. All I was trying to do was elevate humanity
at our lowest point and make it a more joyous occasion. It’s not like I came up
with the idea that when you die you shit yourself. If were up to me I’d have a
white dove fly out of my blow hole, not a steaming pile of the Indian food I
had for dinner, which smells even worse now than when the waiter brought it out
last night. So don’t blame me. Take the issue up with your pastor, or rabbi, or
imam, or maybe a justice of the peace.
I think that this essay is the low
point of my writing career thus far so tomorrow I will write a humorous essay
about the classiest thing that anyone could possibly imagine. I’ll write an
amusing anecdote about something that happened to me when I was visiting the
Louvre in Paris. And it didn’t happen in the bathroom because that would
totally defeat the whole purpose of trying to elevate my writing. Nope, my next
essay will be pure class.
