Choose Your Own Demise
When I die, I don’t want to pass away in a sterile hospital bed attached to a crap bag and hooked up to enough wires and electrodes to make Darth Vader nervous, while I wither away like a stalk of broccoli left out in the sun. I want to go out with some dignity when my time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I think once we all get to the point in our aged lives where we’re shaking hands with the Reaper, that we should be given the opportunity to choose our own end; to consciously decide on our own fate and the way in which we meet our Maker. I know I would rather choose something more “manly” and worthy of respect by my surviving family and peers. Something that would inevitably make for a much more interesting read in the Obituary column of the local paper afterwards.
Who would want to die lying in a puddle of their own released fluids when they could just as easily choose and plan a more dignified fashion to end their lives? Consider the possibilities: having the tar beaten out of them by a professional heavyweight Prize Fighter, suffer a massive coronary attack while banging some blonde Swedish teenaged vixen into the next millennium, mauled while wrestling crocodiles in the Florida Everglades, throwing themselves on a live grenade to save a group of nuns fleeing religious persecution, executed as a hostage in a major bank heist, eaten by a school of piranha while skinny-dipping in the Amazon basin, beheaded by a tribe of headhunters while exploring the darkest regions of the Southern American rainforests, plummet to earth when their parachute fails at 60,000ft, trampled by stampeding elephants while on safari in the African Plains, attacked by a Great White Shark while surfing in the Great Barrier Reef, shot while dueling pistols with a handlebar-mustachioed Italian man over a snooker score, commit Hara-kiri in an ancient Samuri pact, stepping on a forgotten landmine and being blown to Kingdom come while strolling through the French countryside, or slamming into the wall of a NASCAR racetrack at 210km/h.
I want to go out like a MAN!
Imagine the improvements made in the death announcement written for the Obituary’s: “Terry Edward Nash, aged 98, was regrettable lost this past Monday afternoon when his jet-propelled rocket wheelchair crashed into the side of Mt. Dumbass after becoming airborne immediately after launch for almost 32 seconds. Mr. Nash’s last words were heard to be: “Cancer can kiss my rocket ass!” as he was careening off uncontrollably into the horizon. Terry will be long remembered not for his losing bout with Prostate Cancer, but for his complete lack of sanity and incessant desire to make a complete schmutz out of himself."
I think once we all get to the point in our aged lives where we’re shaking hands with the Reaper, that we should be given the opportunity to choose our own end; to consciously decide on our own fate and the way in which we meet our Maker. I know I would rather choose something more “manly” and worthy of respect by my surviving family and peers. Something that would inevitably make for a much more interesting read in the Obituary column of the local paper afterwards.
Who would want to die lying in a puddle of their own released fluids when they could just as easily choose and plan a more dignified fashion to end their lives? Consider the possibilities: having the tar beaten out of them by a professional heavyweight Prize Fighter, suffer a massive coronary attack while banging some blonde Swedish teenaged vixen into the next millennium, mauled while wrestling crocodiles in the Florida Everglades, throwing themselves on a live grenade to save a group of nuns fleeing religious persecution, executed as a hostage in a major bank heist, eaten by a school of piranha while skinny-dipping in the Amazon basin, beheaded by a tribe of headhunters while exploring the darkest regions of the Southern American rainforests, plummet to earth when their parachute fails at 60,000ft, trampled by stampeding elephants while on safari in the African Plains, attacked by a Great White Shark while surfing in the Great Barrier Reef, shot while dueling pistols with a handlebar-mustachioed Italian man over a snooker score, commit Hara-kiri in an ancient Samuri pact, stepping on a forgotten landmine and being blown to Kingdom come while strolling through the French countryside, or slamming into the wall of a NASCAR racetrack at 210km/h.
I want to go out like a MAN!
Imagine the improvements made in the death announcement written for the Obituary’s: “Terry Edward Nash, aged 98, was regrettable lost this past Monday afternoon when his jet-propelled rocket wheelchair crashed into the side of Mt. Dumbass after becoming airborne immediately after launch for almost 32 seconds. Mr. Nash’s last words were heard to be: “Cancer can kiss my rocket ass!” as he was careening off uncontrollably into the horizon. Terry will be long remembered not for his losing bout with Prostate Cancer, but for his complete lack of sanity and incessant desire to make a complete schmutz out of himself."
posted by crazytigerrabbitman at
4:27 PM
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