Dr. Duncan MacDougall sought to measure the mass lost by a human when the soul departed the body at death saying it weighed 21 grams.
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 isn’t how I want it to end. Maybe I’ll go without food and water for a week before I die because I think it would be really cool to have fireworks shooting out of my intestinal tract. It doesn’t have to be an entire Fourth of July celebration; a boat flare would be more appropriate. 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. I was only trying to 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. Why couldn’t we all have a white dove fly out of our blow holes? Instead it’ll probably be a steaming pile of the Indian food we had for dinner the night before which will smell even worse than when the waiter brought it to the table. So don’t blame me. Take the issue up with your pastor, or rabbi, or imam, or maybe a justice of the peace.
As this could be the low point of my writing career thus far, tomorrow I’ll 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.
*I didn’t think that I did but it turns out that I do do do-do humor.