There are several factors to take into account when
considering a means of death for oneself. The first one that most people
consider is often the quick and painless factor. But there are several other
considerations. You have to take into account the dignity factor. Some people
want their death to be memorable. There’s also a divergence between whether you
want to know that death is coming and make peace with it or wanting to die
unexpectedly, unburdened by your mortality. I’ve taken all of these things into
account. Some deaths succeed greatly on one scale but fail on others. Part of
me thinks that it would be awesome to die running with scissors. You’re dying a
true rebel’s death. And you’ll be used as a cautionary tale for generations to
come. But then I think that depending upon where the scissors puncture you…the
slow exsanguination would probably really suck. Every guy jokes that they’d
like to die of an erection lasting longer than four hours. This also seems
painful and very low on the dignity scale. It might sound like a good idea but
I promise you that by Hour 3 you’re regretting this decision. However, I’ve
established that I’d be fine with dying by any of the means below. These are my
approved avenues for starting my trek to the Great Beyond:
I might need to specify this one further…first
world land mine. Oftentimes you’ll hear about the tragic consequences of
landmines in third world countries. Civil war overtakes a country and landmines
are used to cripple and kill in No Man’s Land. You’ll see people who have been
maimed by landmines and hear about those who bled out from more fatal wounds. I
don’t want any of this cheap shit. Cameroon might not be able to afford a
decent landmine…but Russia can. I don’t want to die in agony. I want to die in awesomeness. I want to die by a landmine that makes the argument of burial
or cremation a moot point. There won’t be anything left. It’s quick. It’s
painless. It sure as hell will be memorable to anybody who witnesses it…and
there is no shame in it. Ka-Boom!
 |
| Did she learn nothing from Steve Irwin? |
There is no guarantee that this will
be quick or painless. But it will be awesome. Animal deaths tend to be pretty
manly. While he tragically died before his time, I feel confident that Steve
Irwin would have rather died of sting ray barb to the heart than natural
causes. Animal-related deaths are the ultimate “natural causes”. My death would
also be quite the story and internet sensation because contrary to the utterly relatable Samuel Leroy Jackson film…there are no reported
cases of deaths by “Snakes on a Plane”. Plus, if you’re going to go out, you
want to be able to go out on a good line. And I feel confident that even as
snake venom is draining the life out of me or my plane is going down because an
Anaconda just unhinged it’s jaw and started devouring my pilot, I’ll still be
able to rip off a really good one-liner. I just hope that I’m near enough the black
box for it to live on in infamy.
Who doesn't want to die just partying too damn hard? This isn't a drug overdose or any form of substance abuse. This is just straight up exhaustion. I'm going balls to the wall and my body just gives out because it was in no way ready for the 80 straight hours of the manic and depraved abuse that I just thrust upon it. I'm saying that I want to go out in the shindig equivalent of a Ke$ha video on speed...well, more speed than would already exist in a Ke$ha video. Exhaustion doesn't have to be the coroner's actual cause of death...just so long as it's the root cause. If I pass out and drown while getting a coy pond lap dance...I'm cool with that. If I fall out a third story window because I missed the dismount on my rave party break dance battle...I'm cool with that. As long as I've done everything Katy Perry talks about in her "Last Friday Night" song in the previous 48 hours, then I'm at peace with my own mortality.
I’m not feeling suicide. I always
feel terrible for suicide victims because in a world with literally millions to
billions of great things to live for, they were unable to find the requisite
amount to stick around. Suicide also tarnishes the way people feel about you
and deeply pains those who knew you closely, who oftentimes try and put some of
the blame on themselves. There’s no way I can get down with that. However, if I
contracted a painful and debilitating disease and had little time left…I’d be
OK with hiring a professional to kill me like Warren Beatty did in Bulworth.
Ideally I’d like to pay some foreign hitman for a public execution. I’d tell
lots of friends to meet me in the local Ralph’s parking lot at night and
because I’d discovered the secret to time travel. Once we’re assembled and I’m
a safe distance away from everybody else and about to begin a demonstration, my
assembled team of hitmen would come rolling in hot in a van and gun me down
with uzis while I shout out “The Libyans! Run for your lives!” But I don’t want
anybody else to die and you can’t trust even the most upstanding hitmen with
collateral damage. So I guess I’ll just have to settle for transferring a bunch
of money through several foreign banks, scattering fake IDs and passports with
odd aliases throughout my apartment, and then having myself sniped in the head by
a fountain in a public square while I’m wearing a suit and have a briefcase
cuffed to my wrist that contains only a leather-bound manuscript full of odd
cypher codes. Sorry for tying up six FBI agents and millions of tax dollars for the next couple years but I want to be remembered.
According to all modern medical terminology this
is probably impossible. SIDS (aka Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) is basically
just a blanket term to label the death of an infant that died of an unknown
health problem. By the time we reach a certain level of physical maturity, it’s
easier to determine what killed us and autopsies tend to like to be specific
with these things. They'll specify things like brain aneurysm or heart failure. I’m not sure at what age
they stop diagnosing it as SIDS but I feel like it’s 6 months or less. However,
I would like to die of a medical mystery so great that no coroner can identify
it and thus is almost required to label me as the oldest-ever SIDS victim. This
will be extremely hard to pull off since medically there is always an answer
for means of death but I think that Lady Gaga might have a venereal disease
that defies modern science and can kill
me in the middle of the day with no warning, for no reason enough that I can
land the coveted SIDS designation on my death certificate. Guinness Book of
World Records, here I come!
Did I miss anything? Feel free to share any overlooked final exit strategies in the comments. Also, anybody who can correctly identify all six movie stills in the title card will receive some sort of prize.
No comments:
Post a Comment