I think the most unselfish way for anyone to exit this earthly plane is to be eaten by a wild animal.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s no picnic while it’s happening. It’s probably one of the more unpleasant ways to go. That bear attack that happened to Leonardo DiCaprio in the The Revenant?
[SPOILER] Even though Leonardo DiCaprio survived the attack, that shit legitimately freaked me out for days after I saw it. [END SPOILER]
It disturbed me on a level I didn’t even think possible, and I say that as a person who lived through times when denim jeans had no stretch. I used to lie on my bed on 1989 at age 13, all 105 pounds of me, and suck in my non-existent gut and hold my breath saying, “Do it do it do it” while a middle school friend used actual pliers to pull up the zipper on my jeans because they were so tight. That’s how inflexible the jeans of yore were.
Also, “Yore Were” is “Wolf Blitzer” in Japanese. Keep saying it. Yore Were. Yore Were. Yore Were.
You’re doing it right now aren’t you?
Don’t ever do anything just because I told you to do it. It takes me like one successful try at that before I’m drunk with power.
Despite the horror of The Revenant bear attack incident, I don’t know, there’s something about a bear attack that just doesn’t have the same kind of style as, say, being eaten by a tiger. I feel like if you go into the woods and a bear eats you, that makes for an okay enough story for your loved ones to tell at your funeral, but it really lacks the pizzazz of being eaten by more interesting mammals.
I mean, you’re dead. Besides any life insurance you might have had kicking around, what more do you have left to offer? The least you can do is leave behind a good story for your loved ones to tell at bars.
That’s why when it’s my time, I want to be eaten by a tiger and/or lion. Maybe a liger, but that’s almost a little too precious, isn’t it? Something in the way of a larger cat, because I imagine there’s nothing “quick” about being eaten by a pack of house cats. Big cats at least know how to take shit down. Plus, if you get eaten by house cats, people might assume you were a sad hoarder crazy person. Not that you’re not.
The big cat scenario is preferable because it would lend itself to situations where people would ask my loved ones, “Oh my god! How did she die?!” and then the loved ones could answer (wailing), “Maggie got eaten by a cat! A GIANT CAT!”
Isn’t that intriguing? How much mileage would you get out of that one?
“I saw Maggie just last week and she was fine! What happened?!”
(Fighting back tears) “Well, I got up and went to work on Tuesday, did my usual thing. It was like any other day, really. Right up until I got the call from the hospital saying that she had been eaten by a, eaten by a…”
(Turns into sobbing), “…ca-a-a….ca-a-a…ca-a-a…caaaaaat!!”
Everywhere you went after that, people would whisper behind your back, “Isn’t that the guy whose wife got eaten by a cat?” or “Isn’t that the lady whose daughter got eaten by a big kitty?” Your entire identity would revolve around the way I died, which since I’m not particularly religious, is the best possible way to haunt people from the grave have people remember me after I’m dead.
(I also have a general rule that if actual “haunting” is possible, I will only do it when you’re either (a) on the toilet, or (b) wanking it. Hopefully those two things won’t ever cross into each other in the Venn diagram of your life, but if you’re grief-stricken over my having been eaten by a cat, I’ll give you a pass on that for at least the first few months. Beyond that, my ghost would just be enabling you and your disgusting habits. My ghost is gonna be all about tough love, so you better get your shit straight, buckos.)
It would do me a solid to know that I kicked it leaving behind a good story, and it would make you sort of a local legend. The guy whose wife got eaten by a cat. The lady whose daughter got eaten by a big kitty. I made you famous! You’re welcome?
You know who else said they would “make you famous”? Billy the Kid, as played by the effervescent Emilio Estevez in Young Guns and Young Guns 2.
That’s right. It alllllll really comes back to that, doesn’t it? You spend decades of your life trying to figure shit out and find your way. You write some stuff online about your makeup regimen, close calls with the law, and the slutty years of your youth, and then WHAMMO. Someone from the Sheen/Estevez family barges into your brain NIGHT AND DAY and finds a way to change your entire life’s narrative, one blog post at a time.
Plus, being eaten by a tiger/lion/liger is basically just feeding a really, supremely lazy animal, and I totally identify with their particular plight. I’m so lazy that when I see I’m out of clean spoons at home I just eat mashed sweet potatoes cold with my bare hands like they’re an orange sandwich-wad and then wipe my dirty hands on my jeans and argue how that’s no different than using a cloth napkin when you really think about it.
Feel free to write “Jeans are just leg-napkins” on my tombstone right under, “Eaten By Cat”. I’m that committed to the cause.