What A Way To Die!

Somewhere, sometime, there was someone who died with a finger up their nose. Picking a booger on the way out, what a way to go!

No fireworks. No heroic dive into the Ocean to save a drowning child. No blaze of glory. Just a poor man scratching his ass when a massive heart-attack overtakes him. Just a woman with a yeats infection when she has a massive brain aneurysm. Just a man with a boner on the bus when the suicide bomber's backpack obliterates his latest fantasy.

What a way to go! Yet, how fitting. How human to die that way. How human to go out in a pile of shit and a load of piss. How apt for a young feller to be caught with a boner when the Grim Reaper comes a knockin! What could be more precious than that?

All of our heroic illusions about how we would like to die--how we see ourselves going out of this-world. Raging against the light with Dylan Thomas. Prepared to enter the Bardos with our guide the Dalai Lama. All set for Jesus to take us Home. Waiting for Allah and the Muslim equivalent of Hugh Heffner's Playboy mansion (the only difference being that of virginity, or lack thereof in the case of the Playboy mansion!). But who sees themselves dying in a truly human way; meaning, in a way that has its precedents in how we actually live our lives: shitting ourselves, pissing ourselves, scratching our genitalia, picking our noses, fidgeting with a nicely mined load of earwax... and BOOM! There you are in the after-life, caught with your pants down around your ankles before a Gathering of Angels.

Excuse me... uhm... I was just... er.... uhm... scratching... an.... uhm...