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. 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.
