I’m worried about what will happen to me after I die.
I’ve always been worried about dying, though more out my reluctance to leave a huge vacancy in the lives of my friends and family than due to my abject terror of shuffling off this oh-so-cursedly mortal coil.
But I’ve suddenly realized that something truly terrible could happen to me after I’ve died.
My corpse could fall into the hands of a necrophiliac.
Yes, I am now kept up late at night by worries of being violated in flagrante delicto mortum.
Not even my wife’s repeated assurances that I’d be lucky to get any while alive provide any comfort.
But she tries, and that’s why I love her. And my kids. I love my kids because despite looking nothing like me, they are clearly a part of the woman I love.
So what is one to do? How can one protect the sanctity of one’s body after death?
Who would want to have sex with a rotting corpse, especially one that looks like yours? is the most common response I get when I raise this question.
They’re necrophiliacs, people! Depraved misfits who get off on disgusting acts. Nothing is beneath them.
Save perhaps the occasional corpse.
So you can’t just blithely rule the possibility out.
You’re dead, you won’t care, now can I please leave? is another response I’ve been hearing a lot lately. Mostly from co-workers I’ve pigeon-holed in the smaller conference rooms at work. Their callous attitude makes me suspicious they have darker motives for convincing me to drop my guard.
Damned closeted necros.
Yes, if I’m dead, I might be oblivious to the trespass, but knowing it could happen then makes me care now.
So what can I do?
Cremation seems like the perfect solution, until you think about it.
First off, what’s to stop someone desecrating your urn? Sure, ashes might not be the sexiest lubricant, but if the particles are fine enough…
No, I have not thought about this too much! You can never think about something this important too much!
But assuming you order the extra-coarse cremation option (and frankly, this ought to be an option, crematoriums), there’s still that period of vulnerability between the moment of death and the embrace of the furnace.
You could end up in the care of an unsavory cremation technician who’s been exposed just a little too long to the fumes of the crematorium furnace fuel.
Hell, if I was a necrophiliac, and I wanted a pool of perfect victims where there would be no unpleasant embalming fluids to deal with (I imagine formaldehyde would burn … sensitive areas) and you’re not just expected, but encouraged, to burn all the evidence, cremation technician would be the perfect job.
And that’s assuming your body is found right away. What if you have the bad luck to keel over while alone with a secret necrophiliac?
Or worse, killed by one? One who has meticulously planned your murder to minimize physical damage in order to stuff your naked body and keep it as a trophy in his (or her) underground dungeon, right next to the naked Blake Shelton Real Doll?
At least I hope that’s a Real Doll!
Or, worst case of all scenario, you’re murdered by a necrophiliac who abuses your poor corpse for years, and then the bastard dies of a heart attack, how else but in flagrante delicto mortum. And thus is your body discovered and photographed for evidence (and for the private collections of some pretty sick CSI techs), and then you are turned over to a cremation technician.
A cremation tech who enjoys huffing and just happens to like the cut of your jib, as it were.
Talk about a final indignity!
If you aren’t worried about this, you should be! No one is exempt from the perverted attractions felt by amorous necros. And lets face it, they probably aren’t getting a lot, so they’re gonna feel really, really amorous.
Like large quantities of alcohol, that’s only gonna lower their standards until no one dead is safe.
We need as many people working on a solution to this problem as possible because frankly, I haven’t slept a wink since this threat became known to me.
This means I’m really tired.
Combine that with my driving a mini van now, quite possibly on a road in your neighborhood, and I think you are properly incentivized.
And when you think about it, that’s clearly what’s really bothering me: I drive a mini van.
Which means I’m old.
Which means I’m closer to dying.
And falling into the clutches of a depraved cremation technician.
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