Dying for Fun

The Following is a Dramatization: No Shave Ice was Actually Harmed

As we turned away from the beach, a particularly stout gust of wind tore past us, whipping my friend's hair in a mass of tangles around her throat. She gasped and dropped her shave ice cup and struggled to disengage the locks that threatened to cut off her oxygen. We stared, frozen in shock, because this could have happened to any of us (well, really, only me, because the third member of our party had hair of only an inch in length). Though we were incapable of rushing to her aid, all ended well when the breeze abated and we could safely continue our walk.

What, you ask, is the point of this narrative whose drama is so risible? Well, just think, wouldn't that incident have illustrated a particularly inane and horribly ridiculous way to go? Strangled by one's own hair. It is very nearly worthy of a Poltergeist sequel, and though I have no reason to think that people doubt my instability and really wonky sense of humor, I shall illustrate the genesis of my getting a big ole chuckle out of bizarre deaths with a tale from my youth.

My wee sis and I were watching a television program that purported to investigate the phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion ("ningen jizen hakka" in Japanese, if you're curious). Visualize, if you will, an elderly gentleman pushing his walker toward a picturesque lake. Strapped on the venerable old timer's cardiganed back is a common domestic smoke alarm. As the man's forward progress halts, the alarm goes off and, in a very suspiciously Pythonesque column of grey flannel colored smoke, the gent vaporizes, leaving only the walker and his ratty brown loafers surrounded by some singed grass. I need not tell you that the two of us were absolutely incapacitated by laughter and, to this day, if one of us even remotely suggests a smoke alarm beeping we dissolve into tear-inducing giggles. Why such a passing should be amusing to us, I do not know, but suffice to say that I would count spontaneous combustion among the really ridiculously chosen (albeit funny) ways to buy the farm.

Permit me to interject here that, according to some aficionados on the topic, there have been some notoriously asinine deaths in history. To whit- World War II bomber pilots were known to meet their end when they were aloft in unpressurized cabins after having consumed beans… Next, there was the case of astronomer, Tycho Brahe, who was so renowned as a host that he would never rise from table as long as guests were present. Evidently his quality of graciousness turned to gaseousness of a fatal degree and he literally exploded. (Though an actual physician imparted this one to me, I was in such hysterics that I missed whether it was bowel or bladder related, but may it be a lesson to us all that “"better out with shame than in with pain.") I could also cite to you medical evidence of cases of “"trunk butt" that would evoke giggles from a certain bon vivant whom I know, but I shall desist with the Deaths by Gastric Distress and move on.

Indeed, I am now set to pondering extraordinary circumstances where my own demise would be less lamentable and more laughable. The one that comes most clearly to mind results from a conversation involving a pet turtle. I have long wanted a pet turtle (more because I have an outrageously perfect name for it than out of a particular affinity for turtles. Really, “"Spindrift" is just about the ideal moniker for a little boxy, carapaced amphibian. Don't bother looking it up, I did the work for you and it means “"wind driven sea spray"”-- and no, while I may have an, at times, stunning vocabulary, it is not something that I just randomly knew. Though I have recently been using the word because I happen to experience the existence of spindrift with impressive regularity here on the islands...…now, if you'll excuse me, I must be returning to Death by Turtle...)

As I was saying, I have often thought that a pet turtle would be ideal, but evidently they are filthy little buggers. I am informed that, just like poultry, turtles carry salmonella, and though under most circumstances, this would not deter me, one lingering image does give me pause. What if, one night, I forgot to put Spindrift securely back in its cage and, in the lonely cool before the dawn, said seemingly innocuous house pet sought warmth in the vicinity of my pillow where I soundly slept dreaming of turtle soup -- I mean, clam chowder, really, that's what I meant, I would never, how could you even suggest such a, well... And in the midst of my dream I inadvertently licked the wretched beast whose miserable cold-blooded nature had driven it to within striking distance of my unconscious and therefore innocent mouth?! And then where would I be, huh? How would I know that my rapidly degenerating appetite and bouts of horrifying diarrhea and my skin peeling off in sheets and my toenails turning purple (oh, wait, the latter there was my nail polish and I don't really know if salmonella poisoning makes your skin peel off, but it's kind of a grossly amusing thought), that all of these symptoms were the result of one careless moment as the master of a bacteria-riddled, cage-dwelling, masquerading-as-harmless vegetarian?! What would they say at my wake? I might be laughed out of the graveyard (that is, if they didn't cremate my contemptible pet-licking bones)! Oh, execrable day that I heard the word Spindrift and dreamt of making it my own!

And if you have not yet guessed, I probably will not soon be purchasing anything which I may dub “"Spindrift," thus avoiding at least one of the many bizarrely idiotic ways that I could bite the dust. All of the others, well - I shall work on preventive measures for those. In the meantime, I need to do some research on a phenomenon whereby ingesting Aunt Edna Hostettler's home-canned fruitcake might be even more lethal than eating it fresh.

~~~~~

Leigh Sholler is not a certified Zoologist.