You’d think me giving you four solid ideas for ways to dispose of my decaying corpse in lieu of a typical boring funeral would be enough, but apparently not. My twisted imagination doth not cease.
Last time, I made my “funeral” fun for you, because I’m selfless, or will be when I’m dead. But this, the sequel, is a “do in death what I could not accomplish in life” version. What I’m saying is, these ideas are things that will both get rid of the body and help me check things off my life list. If you’ll be so kind to help my deceased person in the following ambitious endeavors, I’d appreciate it as much as the deceased can appreciate anything.
Swimmin’ with sharks. One of my main life list items is to swim with sharks. Assuming that I don’t get to do this while I’m still breathing as preferred, it would be great if you could take my corpse swimming with great white sharks. Of course, as I’ll be dead, protective gear and cages are not necessary. In fact, dead bitches can’t swim anyway, so to make this fun for you (see? selfless) too– assuming you’re the type of person who would enjoy this, which, let’s be honest, if you are my friend, you probably are)– go ahead and make me into chum. Hand-cranked meat grinder, axe, butter knife– whatever way you want to make me into chum is your prerogative. Just make sure I get to the Horn of Africa to swim with/feed some sharks.
Stormchasin’! I’ve always wanted to try stormchasing. It all started with Twister and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, that goddamn silly bastard. So, you’ve seen the movie (don’t even bother lying)– You know the research modules they are trying so desperately to get up into the vortex? Well, I’m lightweight. I bet I could fly far better than that Dorothy hunk of metal ever could. Simply empty out my thoracic & abdominal cavities, fill me with those sensors, and chuck me into the path of the nearest F5. Bonus points if you can get Phillip Seymour Hoffman on scene to yell, “It’s the suck zone!” at the moment of liftoff.
OMGWTFBBQ. One of my dreams is to open a little roadside BBQ shack called “OMGWTFBBQ”. If I can’t make that happen in my life, help me out with the next best thing: Turn me into OMGWTFBBQ. If you take my (fresh, please) body into the hills of the Carolinas, no one will even ask any questions. BBQ is BBQ. Ribs, pulled-Bri sandwiches, it’s all good. All of it, finger-lickin’ good. At 100 pounds, I could probably feed 30 average people, or 10 Americans. I pair well with a frosty, foamy root beer.