George Carlin - Napalm and Silly Putty

Now, you might be wondering why I would even suggest that someone can affect the manner and style of his death. Well, it’s because of a mysterious and little-known stage of dying, the two-minute warning. Most people are not aware of it, but it does exist. Just as in football, two minutes before you die you receive an audible warning: “Two minutes! Get your shit together!” And the reason most people don’t know about it is because the only ones who hear it are dead two minutes later. They never get a chance to tell us.

But such a warning does exist, and I suggest that when it comes, you use your two minutes to entertain and go out big. If nothing else, deliver a two-minute speech. Pick a subject you feel passionate about, and just start talking. Begin low-key, but, with mounting passion, build to a rousing climax. Finally, in the last few seconds, scream at those around you, “If these words are not the truth, may God strike me dead!” He will. Then simply slump forward and fall to the floor. Believe me, from that moment on, people will pay more attention to you.

Of course, such a speech is not your only option; circumstances. may permit a more spectacular exit. Perhaps you’ll get your two-minute warning during an aerobics class. If so, volunteer for something strenuous. Grab three sets of dumbells, strap on a lot of leg weights, and start running on the treadmill at a really steep grade. When they tell you to stop, turn the treadmill up to 20 miles an hour and start leaping in the air. Tell them it’s a new exercise called the Hindu Death Leap. Then collapse on the treadmill, allowing it to fling you backward into the mirrored wall, breaking the mirror and showering everyone with small pieces of glass. I guarantee the police will search your locker carefully.

“Heal This!”

Or maybe you’ll be lucky enough to receive your two-minute warning while attending Christian faith-healing services. This is a wonderful opportunity to give religion a bad name. After the sermon, when they ask for those to come forward who “need a miracle,” stand up and get on line with the cripples. Try to time things just right. Cut into line if you have to. Then, with barely ten seconds left, kneel in front of the preacher. He will place his hands on you, shout, “Heal!” and you will croak at his feet. Not quite a miracle, but certainly an attentiongetter. And the nice thing is they’ll blame it on the preacher:

Posthumous Fun

But you needn’t be satisfied with merely an impressive death scene. You can actually take it a bit further, past the moment of death, by preprogramming some posthumous reflexes into your brain. Remember, the central nervous system runs on electricity, and dying takes place in stages. So, not all of your electrical energy is fully discharged at the time you are pronounced dead; some of it remains stored. Morgue and funeral workers report that corpses often spasm and twitch as much as two days after death.

So I say, as long as you have that potential, be creative. Before you die, try using autosuggestion and visual imaging to preprogram into your brain a few posthumous reflexes. Things that will entertain the folks you leave behind and capture their imaginations. You might want to consider humming during your autopsy, or snapping your fingers during the embalming, or—always a big winner at a wake—bolting upright in your coffin and screaming, “I’m not really dead!” That one is especially fun if someone has brought along impressionable children.

But perhaps you’re of a more conservative stripe. If so, at your wake, something as simple as squeezing off several dozen loud but artistically redeeming farts might bring a smile to the faces of those who knew you best: “Isn’t that just like Uncle Bob,” they’ll chuckle, as they rush to open a window.

So, folks, I think my message is clear: even in death, obligations to your loved ones do not end. You still have the responsibility to entertain and ease their grief. And should you persist, and be truly creative with these postdeath efforts, you may accomplish the rare feat of leaving behind a group of incensed relatives who beat you with heavy clubs until they are satisfied that you’re fully and completely dead.

I don’t like to attend funerals. When I die, I don’t want a funeral, because I’m sure of one thing: if I don’t like other people’s funerals, I’m going to hate my own.

And I don’t want a wake. I don’t like the idea of lying on display, dead, in a mahogany convertible with the top down. Everybody looking, and you’re dead. They have no idea you’re wearing short pants, and have no back in your jacket. It’s embarrassing. Especially if they use too much makeup, and you look like a deceased drag queen.

And as you’re lying there half-naked, one by one they kneel down and stare silently into your coffin. It’s supposed to look reverent. What they’re really doing is subtracting their age from yours to find out how much time they have left. That is, if they’re younger. If they’re older, they just gloat because you died first.

“He looks good.”

“Dave, he’s dead.”

“I know. But when he was alive he didn’t look this good.”

It’s a perverse fact that in death you grow more popular. As soon as you’re out of everyone’s way, your approval curve moves sharply upward. You get more flowers when you die than you got your whole life. All your flowers arrive at once. Too late.

And people say the nicest things about you. They’ll even make things up: “You know, Jeff was a scumbag. A complete degenerate scumbag. But he meant well! You have to give him that. He was a complete degenerate well-meaning scumbag. Poor Jeff.”

“Poor” is a big word when discussing the dead.

“Poor Bill is dead.”

“Yeah, poor Bill.”

“And poor Tom is gone.”

“Jeez, yeah, poor Tom.”

“Poor John died.”

“Poor John. Hey, what about Ed?”

“Ed? That motherfucker is still alive! I wish he would die.”

“Yeah. The dirty prick. Let’s kill him.”

When writing a letter of reference for a friend, give him a glowing recommendation, but just for fun, conclude by saying, “Don’t let Dave’s legal history trouble you. There’s reason to believe the little girl was lying.”

Just for fun, knock on the door of any stall in a public rest room and say, “Sir! Please try to control the smell in there. Don’t force us to bring in the hoses.”

Call one of those How-Am-I-Driving 800 numbers and, just for fun, complain about a particular driver. Tell them he was driving on the sidewalk, vomiting, giving the finger to old women, and dangling a baby out the window.

Next time you’re at a baseball game, sing the national anthem in a loud voice, but just for fun, alternate each line between English and complete gibberish:

See if that doesn’t get the fans talking among themselves.

While strolling past a sidewalk café, just for fun, squeeze off several truly repulsive farts, silent or noisy. If silent, stand to one side and watch the results; if noisy, tip your hat and say, “Bon appetito.”

Walk through a crowded amusement park carrying a small tape recorder that plays the sound of a little girl’s voice screaming, “Help, Mommy, the man is touching me like Daddy does at home!” Just for fun.

When you step on the brakes your life is in your foot’s hands.