Sponsor my Funeral

Sinking into one of my more contemplative moods today, I imagined what it would be like to have a friend who is a scientist. I know some "actuarial scientists" out there will argue that, rhetorically, they are both my friends and scientists. However, my definition of scientist requires that said person work with test tubes 90% of the time. 'Tis a simple definition, as derived from the "It's what they're always doing in the pictures on those grade school worksheets" method. Unconvinced? Ask yourself: Have you ever seen a doctor without a stethoscope? Have you ever seen a clown not juggling? Have you ever seen a dog not grow healthy bones after eating a delicious bowl of Alpo(TM)? I highly doubt it all. If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you must exist in a slightly alternate dimension, and I will resist shaking your hand in the future out of the fear you'll pull me in there.

Speaking of the future, this sentence exists, relative to your reading, in the future of the previous.

Speaking of the future in terms of non-meaningless observations, I also contemplated today the arrangement of my funeral. If I died in the near future, how would the people I want to attend my "Rockin' Dead Year's Eve" party get the invite? Yes, Dick Clark would come to complain about my posthumous misuse of his television event title; and yes, my parents could probably contact a majority of my Wisconsin friends; but what about the rest? What about all of my Los Angeles friends? I don't think my extra role on Quintuplets (look for me in episode 103 under the Fox logo) warrants me an IMDB news alert, so my pal Topher Grace will miss the message. And Stan Lee hasn't talked to me since I pointed out some missing pixels on Wolverine's right index claw in X-Men Legends II, so I doubt he'll even care if I want him there.

Stan and me during the best of times, when we were friends and I was Mexican.

And what about that kid I'm hiding from everyone? She's going to be 3 this November, and her name is Chandyce, as presented by Dentyne Ice. I don't want her growing up with the guilt of having missed her father's funeral. Nor do I want her growing up with the relief that her kidnapper is dead. (I never specified why I was hiding her.)

Sigh. Dying is going to be an organizational nightmare. Unless... Yes! That's it! I'll hire strippers for the event so that everyone shows up! I'll hire policewoman strippers! And firemen strippers! And poodle strippers! Every man, woman, and beast in earshot will rush to the raging techno beat of my final farewell, as my ashes are tossed out over the river I've travelled so much in my dreams - China's mighty Yangtze.

I'm so glad this problem is solved. Now I can relax and peruse some BBC News...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!