As some of you know, I’m kind of terrified of commitment, much in the same way Joe McCarthy was terrified of communism. (Is it a coincidence that the two words sound similar?) The idea that you have to stick with one person for the rest of your life is blood-curling. You wake up? She’s there. Go to bed? She’s there. Want to use the bathroom? She’s there. Watch TV? She’s there. Walk naked to the fridge and take a swig straight from the carton while scratching yourself? She’s there, shaking her head at you in disgust. And probably not for long.
In any case, that’s just the “’til death do us part” part. There’s also the “eternity” part – those lucky enough to find their soulmates believe that they will be together forever. And they feel good about that. But have they stopped to think about what that means? Forever’s a damn long time. Eventually you have to run out of things to say to each other, if only because words are finite and time is not. It’s enough to make a grown man freak out and run to the nearest cougar bar.
That said, there is probably an argument for bidding on this. It’s the crypt above Marilyn Monroe, which at press time is fetching a bid of $4,600,000. You can buy it and assure yourself, in a way, of being put to rest forever on top of Marilyn Monroe, if you conveniently disregard the various concrete slabs between each other.
The current tenant of said crypt requested to be buried face down, so he could spend eternity on top of Kennedy’s broad in the missionary position. Yes, really. We’ll also ignore for a second that Hugh Hefner, when he finally dies on top of his two sets of twins, will be buried right next to you, perhaps looking over your shoulder, hopefully not doing much more than that.
No word on whether Joe DiMaggio will beat you up once you get to heaven, but, even if he does, you have a fun story to tell to Jack Kennedy over scotch at Heaven’s Vineyard.
So, um, does anyone have $4.7 million I can borrow? If you don’t I can proceed with my original burial plan. It consists of wrapping up my corpse in dynamite and then have it thrown from an airplane into an active volcano so that everything goes boom and the volcano erupts and scatters my ashes around the globe, allowing everyone to absorb tiny atoms of my awesomeness.
That is my gift to the world. Should I get the money, then I’d just share my gift with Marilyn Monroe.
In light of this, perhaps it is best to recast my appeal for money into a threat, since the two options make it sound like one.
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