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October 29, 2010
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When I die, I want my remaining family and friends to blow me up. Not like a balloon, like an explosion. I mean, I'll be dead, right? Why would I care about a crowd of people stuffing my orifices with tubes of gun powder? What are you going to do with my body otherwise? Put it in storage? Taking it to a taxidermist could be an interesting scenario, someone could turn me into a coat hanger by the front door, or glue a tray to my hands as a place to toss keys and sunglasses. I'm not sure that there is a taxidermist out there that gets paid enough to dig around inside of me and put glass eyes in my face, though...

I envision the event happening at Gas Works park in Seattle. To pay for the whole ordeal, I will plan to have accumulated enough funds over the years in a savings account, named: "For dead me: don't touch until dead". Hopefully I can track down a bald eagle that is also close to being dead. We will train the eagle to bite my dead head, and fly with dead me dangling from it's beak high up into the sky above hundreds of families picnicking and enjoying a beautiful afternoon. Dead me will be naked and covered with petroleum jelly, for shininess, except for my head, that will need to be dry so that the bald eagle doesn't prematurely drop dead me on an innocent family.

There will be a remote charge duct-taped inside of my belly button. On the ground, a detonator will be built inside the face of one of those rubber dummies designed for boxing training. The face on the dummy will be switched with a replica of my face, and someone will have to punch the dummy in the face to set off the charge taped inside of my belly button, which will ignite the explosives housed inside of dead me. The bald eagle won't know what's coming, and will die for an outstanding cause.

Because there will most likely be children present, we can work together to decide on what types of explosive designs will appear in the sky. Maybe a Mickey Mouse. Maybe a smiling Erkel face, shrugging his shoulders with his head tilted to one side. Maybe a cartoon puppy, or a bowl of fruit. Maybe the colorful explosive spray could form an elaborate note for all to see: 
"You are looking at a man, and a bald eagle, that have just exploded. He was dead anyway, and the bald eagle was old and almost dead too. He shopped at Banana Republic because they were the only place that made a shirt size that was short enough for his loaf-of-bread midsection, with sleeves long enough to cover his morbidly long arms. He never birthed any children. He spent most of his life working at skating rinks, movie theaters, on public buses, and under church pews as a gum-removal specialist. He had pristine credit, loved thick-cut bacon, and only laughed once in his life when he saw dolphin poop in a tank at Sea World. His name was Aaron. The bald eagle had one leg removed two years ago after an attendant working at the conservation clinic accidentally slammed a cage door on it. The attendant was fired and publicly embarrassed by senator Patty Murray, who has been wrongfully in office for 86 years. The leg developed a fast-sweeping infection that since grew to its face. It looked gross, it smelled like plain yogurt, and that's why the bald eagle was almost dead. His name was Mr. Caldwell, but his friends called him Feathers. From the two recently exploded mammals in the sky, to you folks on the ground: Good luck dodging our smoldering body chunks. Love, Aaron and Mr. Caldwell."
What a way for a bald eagle to go. I'm assuming that they usually just die on a rock somewhere in Wyoming, and then wolves pick away at it like a meat and cheese tray at a super bowl party. The only downer for the eagle is probably how my dead head would taste. We could just dip it in a bucket of smoked salmon spread, but then I'd again be concerned about dead me slipping out of the bald eagle's beak onto an innocent family below. It's bad enough having a slick and shiny naked dead guy fall on you in the middle of a picnic on a Tuesday, but to have his head also wreak of smoked salmon, that would be terrible. I'll have to think about that part a bit more before committing to a flavor, it needs to be enjoyable for the bird too.

The point that I'm trying to convey is that it's important to pro-actively think this stuff through. Not everyone is lucky enough to naturally have a romantic ending where you slide off a frozen door out in the middle of an ocean and drift away into the darkness after a huge boat wreck, like Jack from Titanic. I didn't think that Rose was attractive anyway, they should have casted Eva Mendes for that role. If I was Jack, I would have said, "Sorry Rose, it's a dog-eat-dog world, and there's no way I'm going out like this. This is my door. I did have fun on the boat though. If they survive, I'll tell your family that I really liked you, and if you would have survived I probably would have given dating you a shot". Unless it was Eva Mendes. Then, I probably would have let her have the door. Wait, that's stupid, I still would have tipped her off of the door and said roughly the same thing. It would be nice to have a sweaty passionate fling on a boat with Eva Mendes, though.

Until next time: Life isn't just about keeping your lawn mowed and your storage stowed, your boats rowed and your winters snowed. It's more than your laundry loads, and your public roads. And more than keeping your tears sewed, and your plumbing flowed. Avoid living by a meaningless code, that could someday make you implode. Simply live Life, and when you die, explode.
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