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Final Rites
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They say that only two things are certain in life– death and taxes. But that’s not really true, ‘cause I know tons of people who skip out on paying taxes. So that just leaves death, the inevitable end that haunts all of us in our darkest moments. But is death really that scary? I’m not sure. It might just sketch us out because we’re all control freaks, and our demise isn’t something that we get to choose. But what if you got to pick the way that you died? If you got to make a perfect exit, would shoving off this mortal coil really be so spooky? We wondered about that, and decided to write up our ideal deaths. And wouldn’t you know, now we’re all really excited about dying, so long as we get to go out exactly like we want to.
THE GUARDIAN
So let’s say I have a terminal illness like cancer or heart disease, something I know I will die of fo’ sho’. Here is my exit strategy: First, I will move to San Francisco, for The Golden Gate Bridge will be the stage of the most epically weird death ever. Next, I will have to round up the necessary supplies to complete my masterpiece. I will need a rocket pack, a large amount of explosives, the Vatican's Boys Choir led by Quindon Tarver (the black kid who sings in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet), a camera crew, and my birthday suit. The camera crew and choir will have no warning of what they will soon witness. Once everything is in place I will summon all of the strength left in my rapidly decaying body and have one last hoorah. The camera crew will be split into two teams. One to film the boys choir and one to film me. The boys choir will be on the cliffs next to The Golden Gate Bridge, singing R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet Parts 1-22. This will give me enough time to set up on my gear on the Bridge. I will pull up in an unmarked vehicle, walk out on the railing of the Bridge, and begin my final moments. I’ll strip completely naked and order the cameraman to start recording. Then I’ll strap on the rocket pack (which has been outfitted with the explosives) and start the countdown. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4... Just then a cop pulls up and tries to foil my plans. Good thing I'm from Texas so I just whip out my concealed handgun and drop that motherfucker Eastwood style (Sorry, I know that's a bad joke). Okay, back to the final countdown…3....2...1...BLAST OFF!!! I’ll start flying through the sky just as the boys choir reaches "Trapped in the Closet Chapter 22", the one where everyone gets AIDS. It only seems fitting to go out on such a heart-felt song about terminal illness. I’ll streak across the sky as both the camera crews and boys choir watch in utter terror. Right as I reach the apex of my flight, I will detonate the explosives, sending my biological confetti all over The Bay. All documentation of this event will then be given to my family and NASA.
CAYLEY HEAGERTY
I don’t know about you guys, but if I’m going to die, I’m going to go out with a bang, quite literally. Why not bite the dust while doing the most pleasurable thing you can do with your body? That’s why my death wish would be to die mid-fuck. You know if you were about to die you’d want to get off one last time too, so why not die while you’re doing the deed? And it wouldn’t just be any old quickie. It would the most toe curling, lip biting, hair pulling sex of my entire life. But it gets better. I’ve decided that the second I come, I want someone to pull a bedazzled rope that drops a diamond-tipped blade from the sky that would chop my head clean off, all guillotine style. It would be quick and painless and my last memory of earth would be getting good and sexed up. And you better believe that my decapitated head would have the biggest shit-eating grin on it.
ONCOMING MORALES
On the day before I died, I would mail out seven letters– six to close friends, and a seventh to a random stranger, preferably someone I had actually encountered on some occasion, like a gas station attendant or a waiter or something. The letters would be unsigned and invite them to compete in a scavenger hunt of grandest proportions. Anyone who chose to participate would be sent gallivanting around the city, finding clues. At some they would probably have to dig a hole or swim to the bottom of a pool, or whisper a password about noodles or something to a bus driver in order to obtain their next mission. Eventually, if anyone made it that far, a creepy old janitor at the mall would deliver the last clue: a map, key, and a copy of my dental records. The map would lead them somewhere way out in the woods, to the place where I would have by this time lit myself on fire and burned to a crisp. The first person to discover my charred remains would also find a fire retardant lock box containing my life savings. In all honesty, the cash will probably only cover their first round of therapy bills, but hey, at least they get a prize.
YAWNY ALLANI
Sitting on an oil rig with my double order of phat thai and pork spring rolls from Thai Kitchen, I’d have my last read of the BFG by Roald Dahl on the open ocean while my giant last meal settles. I want to hold on to that feeling for a while. Below this oil rig sits an abyss, teeming with alien life forms. At least, in the way I’d like to see them— huge, glowing, gelatinous butterfly-looking aliens. I’d breathe in my special liquid that provides m
e oxygen and make my way down into the black hole of the ocean. Just as I ran out of my special breathing fluid, I’d come upon the aliens, who’d take me into their ship where they’d reveal to me the mysteries of my universe. Holy mackerel, there isn’t a heaven!?! And people’s souls live in their knees!?! I'd thank them, bid them adieu, and walk out of their waterproof portal without my oxygen tank, thus beginning my slow ascent to the top while I’d already slipped into the peaceful dark nothing at the bottom of the endless hole.
SHANE SULLIVAN
Due to my untimely catching of terminal cancer of the face and brain, I would be left with only two weeks to live. God knows I wouldn’t want to die in a hospital from an especially slow and painful illness. Time to go out in style. Nothing too fancy. No explosions, no fireworks, just one last adrenaline rush. I’ve always dreamed of flying, so with only a couple more days until my demise I’d steal a plane and one of those flying squirrel looking jumpsuits that allow parachutists to almost fly? Yeah, pretty fucking cool. So I just gotta grab one of these bad boys, hold a pilot at gunpoint, and board a plane. Something big too, one that could take me up to at least 30,000 feet. Normally you can’t jump from that high because of frostbite, but that is irrelevant what with the cancer and all. I’d like to jump somewhere with a great view and maybe a canyon to fly through. In any case I’m not packing a parachute, skydiving to my death with a nice splat. Just put my tombstone where I land and let it read: “Rest in peace, grease spot.”
TRAVIS ACEVEDO
Mine’s simple- I want to be stabbed. As I come out of bar, preferably over a woman. That’s it. Because what I’m most concerned with is my funeral. Fuck a solemn affair in a church with all of my friends and family well-dressed and crying. That’s past played out. No, my funeral will be held in the closest high school gymnasium that has no significance to my life. There, the grieving will be met at the door by waitresses on rollerskates who will hand them strong rum drinks that are topped off with pomegranate juice and chunks of fruit. That should get everyone in good spirits. As everyone files in, a DJ will spin all of my favorite party jamz, which will get people talking about all the good times we had together and all the embarrassing shit they’ve seen me do at 4am. When you finish your drink you simply hold up your hand, and a waitress will skate on over to you with another tall glass of liquid happiness. Then come the speeches. Fuck a eulogy. Everyone will come up and blame all their problems on me. It doesn’t even matter whether or not I was the cause of their troubles to begin with. Your wife left you, you lost your job, you don’t like your kid, whatever. I’ll take the wrap for it. What do I care, I’m fucking dead. For the finale, a magician will come out and do the sawing-the-box trick. That’s right, the magician saw the coffin in half, and when he does, my corpse will have vanished. Afterwards everyone will be led to a large field with plenty of flowers where a keg-stand competition will be held, and you’d better believe that participation is mandatory. That’s how I want to be remembered. Oh, and bury me at sea.