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Necrophilia: Yet another argument for cremation

Family-friendly vehicle, or corpse-smuggling automotive enabler?

It is a well-known fact that the Honda Odyssey is the preferred vehicle of necrophiliacs. It must be the smooth ride and impressive air conditioning.

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.

Right 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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Why I hate Blake Shelton

I’m depressed.

It could be because of the crippling lack of sleep I’ve been suffering due to that most perfect form of birth control, toddlers.

I didn’t mention this in my previous post on the evil of toddlers, but they also tend to scream a lot at random intervals between the hours 8pm and 8am.

And once awake, I am restless and can take as long as an hour to fall back asleep.

Or it could be my rapidly fading faith that Humanity has a future.

I’ve been mini van shopping, and how can you have hope for a species when you have a comparison site lauding the 15 cup holders in Brand X’s 8-seat vehicle over shameful Brand Y’s mere 10 cup holders in their 7-seat vehicle?

How many freakin’ drinks do 7 or 8 people need to lug around with them on trips?

“Oh, I can’t drink the beverage in this cup holder – it’s for holding my northbound cup, and we’re currently traveling north by northwest. Hand me the Tab in my NW holder, please. Ah, thank you.”

Yeah, the conclusion we are completely and utterly screwed (but most likely fully slaked when it comes to thirst) is inescapable.

It could be my complete and total inability to put on a believable fake Scottish accent.

You’d be surprised how desirable, if not downright important, that skill is in certain situations.

Look at that smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

Look at this smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

But I’ve narrowed it down to Blake Shelton. Which is why I hate him.

Oh, it’s not poor Blake Shelton’s fault. Don’t know him, his music (or his TV shows, or his art, or whatever it is he’s famous for).

It’s his fans.

In particular, the ones hell-bent on seeing him naked.

Or nekkid, nekked, and nude.

Which would seemingly lead right back to the whole “no faith in Humanity” jag, but that’s not where I’m going.

It leads right back to me.

Someone I follow on twitter mentioned adding a “Blake Shelton naked” tag to her blog. As a joke. And getting a huge spike in search hits.

So as a joke, I added this tag to a blog post that had nothing to do with Blakes, Sheltons, nakeds, nudes, nekkids, or nekkeds.

I thought it would be funny. All these Blake Shelton fans, hot and bothered about the nudie pics they were about to see, landing on my blog instead and becoming crushingly disappointed.

<insert evil laugh here>

And then, not long after that, I discovered the Site Stats feature on WordPress.

Now I don’t get a huge number of hits every day. Or a lot. Or even very many. Or, possibly, by some people’s standards, not even a few. And that’s pretty depressing in and of itself.

The hits I do get? Steadily, day after day, more than half who reach my site are using some combination of the following search terms:

Blake/Blak/Bake + Sheldon/Shelton + naked/nude/nekkid/nekked/huge throbbing/well-oiled/priest collar/vintage

And that’s depressing.

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1 Comment

Posted by on 28 March 2012 in Life

 

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