CSotD: Will my soul pass over Bristol, CT?
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Today's Non Sequitur is ridiculous. I mean, you'd need a much deeper casket than that.
Wiley will probably get a message saying that, only not joking. Plus some others, since kidding around about death tends to rile people and jokes about how you are buried twice as much.
I find that the older I get, the less I care what happens next, since the older I get the less I think I can control it. When I was a young man, I felt like I was in control of my karma, but I put that on autopilot long ago. I don't know if that means I gave up on it or that it became a natural part of who I am, but I do know it doesn't matter to me.
After you die, either something happens or nothing happens, and I figure it's like riding a roller coaster, with death being that moment when the guy clicks the safety bar down over your lap and you realize there is no graceful exit left. As you start to slowly go clack-clack-clack up to the top of that first hill, you surrender to the inevitability of the thing.
My attitude is genetic, or, at least, my father's fault. I was 30 when my grandfather — his dad — died, and my father and I went down to the funeral home to pick out a coffin. My grandfather's death was not unexpected, but we were still pretty deeply in grief. However, when the guy at the home started talking about inner-spring mattresses, I knew better than to glance over at my father because this was not the time or place to start giggling. We were able to remain solemn until we got back to the car.
My grandfather was a man of some prominence in his town, and he had the foresight to leave my father a letter stating that he wanted no wake, no funeral and that the graveside service was to be short and with only such fripperies as would comfort the family. And that my father was to read the letter to a select pair of his friends who could thus let the town know that his son was only following orders.
My grandfather was a very wise man, because the aforementioned friends said grumbling over the lack of ceremony had already begun. They weren't in the least surprised at the old fellow's choices, but were grateful and relieved to have some documentation.
We all have our wishes. I've told my kids that I don't care if they gather at the cemetery at midnight with a post-hole digger and my ashes in a coffee can, but I want my name carved in the stone. Don't just write it on there with a Magic Marker. Beyond that, mox nix.
Aimee Semple McPherson was reportedly buried with a telephone, just in case, but Snopes.com dismisses this as a rumor in a fairly lengthy and amusing entry on being buried alive.
In "Ulysses," (here, knock yourself out), Leopold Bloom ponders the matter while at Paddy Dignam's funeral: "The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress."
When I was a senior in college majoring in Platonic Government, besides reading "Ulysses," we had a mandatory fine arts class in which we were taken over to the unused, soon-to-be-demolished Fieldhouse and told to select a location and create an environment. My partner and I rigged up one of the stalls in the men's room as a womb.
We hung transparent plastic sheeting over it and spray painted it pink, then put a plywood coffin lid on the door so you could step into your coffin and find yourself in the womb. Heavy!
There was a telephone inside, and the idea was to sit on the toilet and pick up the phone, upon which was playing a loop recording that featured my wife reading the genealogy of Christ from Matthew, with the chords of Donovan's Atlantis and the sound of waves playing softly in the background.
It was a crock, but we presented it with perfectly straight faces and enjoyed the uncertain responses, especially from people who were reluctant to sit on a toilet with their trousers on, toilet seats being a whole other irrational, serendipitous taboo fixation we hadn't figured into our plans. Thing is, the pink plastic sheeting was still translucent, so we could see that they were just standing in there, even after we told them to sit down and pick up the phone.
An older priest emerged from the womb and told us it was "edifying," and we weren't sure whether he was pulling our legs in return, trying to be kind or (least likely of all) being sincere.
Anyway, I hope the guy in Wiley's cartoon has a bag of Cheetos to enjoy in the afterlife. I note with approval that he has a couple of brewskis.
To hell with the telephone. He's set.
Update: Wiley notes that today's Non Sequitur is a rerun. Or, as I prefer to think of it, proof of reincarnation.
Mike Peterson has posted his "Comic Strip of the Day" column every day since 2010. His opinions are his own, but we welcome comments either agreeing or in opposition.
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