Although I am decidedly not a religious person, I amuse myself at times imagining that somewhere, unbeknownst to us, there is a big old ledger book. Within said book is an account of how we die. Perhaps it’s for background checks prior to entry into Valhalla, who knows – it’s made up, after all. If a person passes on in a particularly spectacular fashion, it is noted in the book: “died in a hail of terrorist gunfire while rescuing a school full of orphans” would be one of the better and more heroic ones.
The thought experiment on my part includes coming up with ways I would not want to die – not that I’m anxious to in any circumstances, but I’d like to go out with a little of my dignity intact, if possible. People may not remember you so positively while they say, “Poor old Flash. Imagine, suffocating under a mountain of chinchilla feces”, or, “I’ve never seen anyone shot in the face with an explosive-tipped slinky.” You get the idea. Bizarre, and ultimately humiliating.
I’ve got a new one to add to the list as of this morning. Not so humiliating, but certainly bizarre and disturbing.
I’d prefer, if I have any say in the matter, not to have my head sawn off by a fucking lunatic in sunglasses while travelling through Manitoba on a Greyhound bus.
Can you imagine?
Gives me the jibblies.