I dream of dying a funny death. When everyone lines up to see how rigor mortis has hardened the ‘human like dry coral, I hope they laugh. No tears – just smiles at how awkward the whole thing is.
The only problem with me dying in this way is the likely possibility of the opinion page Hot Line or sports page’s Armchair QB writing a one-line, smart-ass obituary about their number one anonymous rival. I also worry that some film major would make a documentary (“Behind the Weatherbox”), or some dramatic arts major would write a musical about my life.
Unless there’s a lot of songs about chicanery at gun ranges and dead baby jokes, I don’t see how the latter could capture my essence.
Tuesday’s Forecast: The ‘human chokes while fellating its own ego.