When my time finally comes (hopefully sometime before 2061, because that’s when I predict the zombie apocalypse will occur), here are the options I want carried out for my lifeless husk.  Just pick whatever’s most convenient or practical at the time.  I’d specify details in a will, but wills are for saps and suckers.

 

Donate me to science

Surely there’s some sort of value in this carcass from which the sciency guys could benefit.  I mean, I have a 522 I.Q. and an even higher cholesterol level.  Maybe I could even get a dead-guy guest spot on “The Big Bang Theory” (which, as we all know, will likely run at least another 50 years).

 

Bury me in the center of the Earth

Get out your shovels, folks!  I want be way, way, way down there.  I mean thousands upon thousands of miles down.  Put me with the creepy troglodytes and slithering eyeless things. As far as a casket, a rusty discarded refrigerator from the 1950s will do.  Just stuff me in there all willy-nilly.

 

Cremate me

Burn, baby, burn.  And I’m going to be one of those pains in the ass who wants my ashes spread in a really specific manner.  I want a paraglider to spread me over the Alps in Bavaria.  But he/she has to be wearing a Mila Kunis mask while listening to the Ramones and eating deep-dish pizza.  And if you just scatter me in your backyard instead, I will come back and haunt the living shit out of you.

 

Toss me off a cliff into a body of water

Ah, food for the fishies and sharks.  Plus, if a fisherman finds me and reports me, it’d be amusing to say, “yeah, we threw him there.  It was at his request.  Yeah, we know it’s stupid.  Just carry on, piscator.”

 

Throw me into the woods

More food for wildlife.  I’ll be perfectly content looking down from above (hopefully, it’ll be above) and seeing the wolves rip me to shreds.  Or squirrels or ferrets.  Or field mice.  Or butterflies.

 

Freeze me

If it’s good enough for Walt Disney, it’s good enough for me.  Maybe I can be unfrozen hundreds of years later and freak out at a post-apocalyptic dystopian world.  That’d be cool.

 

Shoot me into space

Maybe I would land on the moon; I always thought the moon is pretty.  Or I could come back to life via some science-fiction ploy like in “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.”

 

Put my head in a jar of liquid like on “Futurama”

Now how cool would that be?  With any luck, I could hang out with the Planet Express crew and smoke cigars and chase women with Bender.

 

Mummify me

Then I could live out my dream of being Boris Karloff and coming back to life and terrorizing everybody.  None of that modern Brendan Fraser shit, though.  And throw lots of spices and perfume in there.  Nobody likes a stinky mummy.

 

Plasticize me

I could see being in a museum with lots of slack-jawed yokels staring at me, a sliced-in-half dude, posed in an “I’m about to serve a tennis ball” stance.  The tour guide could say, “here’s a perfect example of a human who had no regard for his body whatsoever.  Beware.”

 

Freeze-dry me

But add some flavor to me, like French vanilla or hazelnut, so folks could enjoy me as a coffee.  “This mocha-flavored Webel really hits the spot on this cold winter morn.”

 

Eat me

No, really.  If there’s a massive food shortage, just eat the hell out of me.  Groceries will probably be extra-expensive.  All I ask is that you eat my buttocks last.  I want my ass to be the final thing this world sees.