Post Your Death Scene

Shot down in a blaze of glory, or pancreatic cancer.

Eaten alive by a feral dog.

Blown up in chunks.

I live to my name.

A fleet of semis. A crowded highway. Large amounts of dynamite. One of the largest domestic accidental massage oil spills ever. Midgets. An aroused Charlotte Church.

All of these events conspire to create the greatest accidental car-related gangbang the world will ever see.

Explosions and booty everywhere.

Beat that, suckers.

Shot into swiss cheese by a Minute Man.

A tense 52 hour stand-off ends when I release the hostages and lay down my gun, mere moments prior to bursting out the window of the adult book store and wildly slinging handfuls of our collected feces at police, who cut me down in a hail of gunfire.

Complete with Samuel Barber's Adagio with Strings or Bon Jovi's Dead Or Alive with slow motion death sequence from Young Guns.

Slip in a bathtub.

The Great Santini. But in a Herc.

After the local mobbing townsfolk, armed with torches and pitchforks, give up on finding my secret resting place, I'm guessing I'll die slowly of colon cancer, heart disease, or that "Adult Diabetes" that Wilford Brimley's been mumbling about.

After my nefarious plan to end all life in the universe can no longer be stopped I realize that I made an oversight.

I'm going to die too.Shit.

Head smashed by plummeting blue airplane toilet ice.

After the eventual demise of my third marriage, like a coven of witches called by a dark power, all three ex-wives will gather to put an end to my philandering ways once and for all. Late at night, as I lay unsuspectingly asleep, they will stealthily enter my domicile. Injecting me with a curare based solution to render me immobile, they may then exact the vengeance each came seeking.

Wife number one's hatred of my wandering eyes will lead her to extract each in a most horrific fashion. Forced from their sockets by a series blunt force traumas designed to shatter the bone surrounding them, and then sliced ruthlessly from their corneal stems by the very knife used to cut our wedding cake, she will take great pleasure in reducing them to heaps of puss and ooze beneath the heel's of her expensive Italian pumps.

Wife Number Two's vow that my lies and deceits will never be heard again will utilize a rusty pair of craftsmen pliers to extract my tongue, tearing it forcefully from it's root in a geyser of meat and blood. Sliced delicately into thin strips with a straight razor and cooked to perfection, it will then be force fed back into my mangled esophagus.

Wife Number Three's vow that my heart will belong to no other, will result in her utilizing a 3 inch width bit with a rotary drill, driving it straight through my breast plate into my heart, which will be torn and twisted about the length of the drill and stripped from my chest. She'll take the shattered muscle's remains and keep them in the jewelry box I gave her on our first anniversary.

A closed casket funeral service will most definitely be mandatory.



If not that, then I'm hoping for a heart attack in bed with a 25 year old flight attendant at age 74.

FabFunk's makeout party.

My death will be preceded by the words: "Dude, I'm telling you... there's no way that knife can pierce this bullet-proof jacket! Ok fine, I'll prove it..."

Considering that I've said I would die happy if they made a Lord of the Rings movie and if the Bucs won a Super Bowl, I'm amazed I'm not dead already.

That being said, I'll be found dead on the toilet.

Sounds like a good climax to a horror/revenge movie... the first part... with the coven of 3 ex-wives... not the heart attack one...

One word:

McGriddles.

Suffocated between a cheap hooker's breasts.

Suffocated between Scarlett Johannson's breasts.

I am/will be the inventor of a time machine. When it spirals out of control, I will/have to travel back in time to kill myself in a murder/suicide that must look like an accident. I decide to smother myself with Scarlett Johannson's breasts while she's filming a movie where she plays a cheap hooker.

She originally won the Oscar for the role, but my time-traveling murder suicide gets too much bad press for her and prevents her from winning. It drives her to porn in this alterted timeline, and the finale involves the phrase ass-to-ass.

BobClark's lips.

My traitorous apprentice throws me down a reactor shaft.

Chopped up into a fine powder and snorted off a CD case by Jake The Snake Roberts.

We get into it with North Korea, they reinstate the draft, I don't make it to Canada and they send me off to war. Deciding that I'm too much of a wimp to be "born to kill" I smuggle in and down a generous amount of fly agaric mushrooms (the stuff that Bersekers might have taken), strap myself to the teeth "Commando" style, and die rushing into the North Korean army, guns a blazing with liquid shit filling my pants and visions of 12ft tall valkyries dancing before my eyes.

At about 220 mph the right rear tyre blows out...

Solo gig. Medium sized club. Record guy in the audience.

Warming up the crowd. Doing my Shatner impersonation during "Moondance". Things going boffo.

Some fuckin roadie knocks over a bottle of filtered water onto the stage. Like the Grim Reaper's finger, it moves along one stageboard to another...until it makes its way in a small rivulet into the outlet my amp is plugged into just as I'm doing the "you *know*....the night's MAGIC...seems to shimmer.....and....*hush*" line and my lips hit the mic and a jolt of electricity runs down my neck and torso and out my hands against the strings of my guitar.

And I think..."Fuck...shoulda used the wireless"

And then I, as always, die on stage.

Lindsay Lohan runs me over in her car during a drug and boozed induced fury. Fortunately for me, all my senses have gone numb from the noxious fumes of her firecrotch.

I could tell you about my death, but I will let this dramatic webpage inform you in ways I never could hope to:

From: http://digilander.libero.it/p_truth/

"We were called out to identify Paul's body, found on a beach near Outreau, North France.

With his feet just below his knees as a result of a fall from a great altitude.

He was in a ghastly state.

His lips looked as if they had been heavily damaged.

The left side of his face had been ripped to pieces and the whole of his right ear had been bitten off.

When we arrived there was a line of police officers blocking us while a crowd of men in medical uniforms were retrieving material for further investigation.
They were so oblivious to the grief we felt that one of them had the audacity to exclaim right in front of Paul's body: "Look ...it seems like a walrus!"

Well, with his teeth hanging outside of his eaten-up lips and with a shiny swollen ear and dripping wet he really did look like a walrus.

John confronted the man who had spoken so insensitively and they began to brawl.

He had to be pulled away as he howled:

"I.., I am the walrus ..not him (Paul), I.., I am the walrus!"

We were desperately aware that THE BEATLES were finished.

We were in total despair for two days.

But our anger made us think: we would not stop, we would not give up.

Paul had left a lot of material that was yet to be published.

We had a meeting, and agreed, nobody had to know what happened and Paul and Brian could still be kept alive.

The only question was how.

A friend of Ringo suggested a solution which could be made possible through the intelligence service department: they had expert cosmetic surgeons and make-up artists at their disposal who could recreate perfect doubles in their secret labs...but in exchange for their help we had to keep quiet about what had happened.

The penalty for refusing to remain silent was death.

Food poisoning caused by eating a feral dog.

Having joined the cast of Mythbusters I die trying to prove that being bitten by a radioactive spider will not give you superpowers.

In a hail of gunfire during a Chinese gangland shootout, ala John Woo's The Killers. I manage to take most of them out in the finest Chow-Yun Fat tradition, before succumbing to my many sucking chest wounds. Before I die from my injuries, I pass my lighter on to my teary-eyed best friend.

The poignant irony is neither of us smoke.

Pics of Diva's twisted corpse show up on Superficial.com.

Hangliding.......LOL....it would go like this weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee........SPLAT!!