Despite the rumors, one day I’m going to die. I don’t know when or how or why, but I’m almost certain it will involve a baseball bat, a crooked-necked fish, the letter G, and at least seventeen traditionally Hispanic dances. As brutal and/or erotic as that sounds, it will mean that something will have to be done about whatever mess remains from the catalyst of my demise.
Burial? Nope, not for me. I don’t like the ground, and the idea of being under it forever is stupid. Ashes? I don’t want to end up in the wind. Plus, I’d probably eventually land on the ground, resulting in the first situation I disliked. How about medical science? Sure… but what if someone I don’t like ends up getting helped from my donations? I don’t want my organs going to that guy who rides a unicycle in my neighborhood. I know it seems unlikely, but I can’t take any chances. That guy is bound to get hit by a car any day now.
So where do I turn with my post-mortal needs? Mars. I know someone somewhere is trying to send something to Mars. Maybe they’re just messing with satellites and rovers or something, but why not send a dead guy? I wouldn’t take up much space, I don’t need to be fed or bathed or entertained, and I could be placed in any pose suited for a good Mars photo-shoot.
Sending dead things into space seems like a great idea in general. Why didn’t we think of that during the Space Race? We could have sent a guy into orbit way before the Russians if we had sent a dead guy. Dead people aren’t used to their fullest enough, and I think that needs to stop. Perfectly good sacks of meat and bone sitting around and what do we do with it all? We put it in the ground. We’re such a wasteful species.