In the Event of My Death...

When you wake up as many times as I have covered in a slick, clammy mixture of barfed-up liquor and Cheez-Its, your head pressed to the base of the toilet because it's so wonderfully cool, your limbs contorted against the bathroom walls and the tub like a Cirque du Soleil dancer run over by a city bus, you begin to think long and hard about your own death. It could happen to any of us, after all, and the odds only go up the more the shots of tequila tell you that the best way to avoid arrest is to headbutt the police officer in the cock.

So, with that in mind, and assuming that I could be killed at any minute by means natural (my liver exploding like a zeppelin made of bourbon) or unnatural (a bouncer twisting my head all the way around until it pops off my body like a champagne cork), I feel it would be in my best interest to write down my last wishes as a matter of public record.

Should any of you loyal, though severely neglected readers see a news story about your ol' buddy C-dog tragically meeting his maker (most likely nude from the waist down), you'll now know exactly how I want the Long Goodbye to go.

Without further adieu...

In the Event of My Death...: The Last Wishes of C-dog

-Originally, I had planned on being an organ donor because saving lives after your dead is kind of awesome and noble in a Spawn/Ghost Rider sort of way. However, it is not at all hilarious. So, instead, I'd like for one of you to remove all my organs and bake them into some sort of savory pie. Then, invite all my closest friends over for a "mourning session." Serve them the pie, but don't tell them about the extra-special ingredient (me). After the pie is gone, reveal the big surprise: Tell them they just ate me. HA!!! It will literally be the funniest thing ever. You might want to put a few tarps down, because people will probably vomit. From laughing too hard, not because I wasn't delicious. Trust me, I am goddamn delicious.

-The parts of me that don't go into the joke pie, I want burned. And I don't mean cremated... I want someone to build a big funeral pyre like the fucking Vikings used to do. Torch my shit on that and let everyone be warmed by my awesome death fire. Play some Swedish black metal to set the mood. Then whoever doesn't have to work the next day should band together and lay siege to a neighboring village.

-There should be two funerals; one that's normal, and one that's normal except for there are Slip N' Slides.

-Gather together all the women with whom I have been "intimate." Make them fight to the death. The winner gets to be burned with me on the funeral pyre! Or, if she's not into that, she gets a $20 gift card from Applebee's.

-Pick one homeless guy and give him all my stuff. Tell him he is King of the Homeless. This should infuriate the other homeless people, but they'll be too drunk or strung out on hard street drugs to do anything about it. Long live His Majesty Stinky Carl, King of the Homeless!!! May his glory reign until his death from tuberculosis and/or his gangrenous leg!!!

-Find someone who you deem "better than me." Like, a businessman or a well-to-do shop owner or something. Kill him. NOBODY IS BETTER THAN C-DOG, EVEN IN DEATH!!!

-Last but not least, as the embers of the funeral pyre begin to smolder, as one lucky lady emerges from the Ring of Battle covered in blood and ready to claim her gift card, as His Majesty Stinky Carl attends his crowning ceremony (it's behind a check-cashing joint), I want everyone who has ever known me... via the internet or from actual human contact... to just get fucking hammered in my name. With each shot, toast to my memory. Salt each beer with a single teardrop cried out just for me. Drink, drink, my people... for your days have gotten a little darker now that C-dog has passed on.

-Or, you know, send a funeral wreath or something. Those are good too.