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Call the number on this bracelet when I die and the iceman will cometh. Zip the sleeping bag cocoon and suspend animation, for I am the cartoon born before its time.
No late night hours wasted on composing the epitaph, I shall rise again in an age of advanced technology and be immortal. Immortal to pursue life's grandest pursuits: good literature, good sex and deeelicious morsels of food to slide over my discriminating palate--ohh! ecstacy!
Thousands of little art deco knickknacks on a ten foot long wood grain bureau that only other immortals can look at.
No funeral, no formaldehyde, and I'm not footing it to the gates nor River Styx; nobody tells this cat which alley to cruise. I am the urban and regional planner of my own future.
Ah, the future; quirky robot servants with martinis, Iliads and Odysseys telling of my adventures and daring-do; an exuberant harem of wet dreams-come-true who appreciate me for what I am: immortal.
Mommy, why is daddy in the refrigerator? Hush, darling, your father is rehearsing for his transmigration into eternity.
Hahaha! - I watch the marigolds wilt, the milk curdle and the turtles fade away; joining the ranks of Edison, Pasteur and Baby Fae; not in a wax museum but in a comfy negative 300 Celsius capsule.
The smear sheets can go on calling me the Otter Pop Mummy; I don't care because I get to play with rats brains! rats brains! jars and bowls of rats brains!
I reject the brevity of mortality; this mortality black and white and longing for color unavailable on today's market.
Alas, poor Yorick, it's already there; has been since long before Gautama Dorothy's Ozburg trek. We cite the shovel-clutching skeleton of the marauder; the chest he buried one foot below the bottom of the hole.
Besides, who knows what happens after circulation stops? I've seen some rad shit in abandoned newspaper offices. Don't cut off your head and freeze it -- you may be cutting yourself off from the most killer interstellar go-kart ride.