mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On death and dying, and where to bury me My eyes are blood-shot. I am shakey. I think I started hallucinating. All from that nasty Maxim link I posted yesterday. I visited it when I was making sure all of my links worked, and I saw that there was a new online poker game that you could download and play for free. Since last night, every free minute I have had has been spent playing poker. Of course, I suck hard. But it is still fun, playing poker with people all over the world. I like this whole internet thing. Al Gore should be patted on the back. So, I know you have all been sitting on the edge of your respective seats in anticipation for my morbid death entry I promised you yesterday. I sat at work making a little outline of what I would say. And I guess a Monday would be the best day to write an entry about death and dying. Nobody thinks life begins on Monday. At best, people feel like hell on Mondays, and what is the only way to get to hell? Death. But what got me thinking about this topic, you ask? On the Today Show over the weekend, they were running the story about that guy's wife that had a heart attack and has been a vegetable for the past 10 years or so. Her folks don't want to pull the plug. He said she wanted the plug pulled. A big legal battle ensues, and on January 3, the proverbial plug is getting yanked harder than Pee-Wee's "plug" at a movie theater. What does K-Mart and Pee-Wee have in commom? Little boy's pants half-off. Anyway, so it got me thinking what I wanted if I were to -- God forbid -- need that kind of life-sustaining technology. And my answer: One week. Give me one week. Make sure I have no reasonable chance to wake up. Then comes the question about the level of vegetation I am able to maintain. Say, after a week, I come out of the coma. But for the rest of my life I won't be able to walk, talk, feed myself, or touch boobs. Go ahead and take me out. Another thing that got me pondering this topic is from an email my mom sent me last Wednesday or so. One of my uncles -- Uncle Freddie -- died in his sleep on Monday. Before you get your emails coming saying, "I'm sorry about your uncle," let me mention that I saw him about a year ago. When I saw him last, I kept thinking to myself that death couldn't come too soon for him. He looked like he was just begging God to take him. He couldn't hear, he had cataracts, and he could barely walk. So, death came as a friend to him. But he was a good ol' guy before he got so bad. He was one of the first American soldiers to liberate the prisoners at Auschwitz. He would barely talk about what all he saw there, but he did give some of the Jews as much of his belongings as he could. That was reason enough to be put on this earth. He also spent a whole weekend when I was a kid teaching me how to bowl. All I really wanted to do was see how many pins I could knock over, but he was insistant that I bowl a certain way. He wasn't the best teacher in the world, but he did give me the signature "JP Bowl" technique I am famous for these days. It's hard to describe in so many words, but it is a lot like the Fred Flintstone bowling technique. If I go bowling again soon, I will get someone to snap a picture. As f'd up as it looks, it works pretty well. I usually average around 120 or so. I guess after talking about the process of dying, I should tell you what to do with my body once I am actually gone. First off, I do not want to be embalmed. Yech. No, way, Jos�. Ideally, I would like a whole to be dug, set me on some kind of lowering system, cover me with a nice sheet, and lower me into the ground. No coffin. No embalming. Just let me effectively recycle back into the (cue Disney music) circle of life. If I must be placed in a coffin, give me a simple pine box. Lower me in. Throw some dirt on me. Have my wake and/or ceremony later. I don't necessarily have to be there in bodily form. I won't be paying much attention. Just keep it simple. At my ceremony, I don't want any kind of preaching. I just want people to take turns massaging my dead ego. Tell stories. Make jokes. Serve whiskey sours. Watch my favorite movies. Serve Pixie Stix in grey colors and say that it is my creamated body. Just for laughs. So... that's it. My death entry. Now, if anyone has any questions about whether to let me die or not, you can just refer to this-here diary and make your decisions accordingly. On a quick side note... I had the Monday Night Football game going while writing this entry. Coaches made two or three challenges to referee calls while I wrote. I think if a coach challenges a referee call, he should receive a quick kick to the 'nads by the opposing team's punter before the challenge goes into effect. Wanna know what's wrong with kids these days? Why do kids always question teachers' and parents' authorities? I blame it on Monday Night Football. And the fact that it is almost midnight, and it is still being played. That's rediculous. Have I mentioned I don't like sports? 10:43 p.m. - Mon., Nov. 25, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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