Someone set me up the bomb
I have now taken the same quiz as my compatriots, and it is clear that, far from dying peacefully in my sleep well into my second century of life, surrounded by loved ones, I'm destined for a grisly and chillingly newsworthy end.
You scored as Gunshot. Your death will be by gunshot, probably because you are some important person or whatever. Possibly a sniper, nice, quick, clean shot to the head. Just beautiful.
|
Bomb |
67% |
|
Gunshot |
67% |
|
Posion |
60% |
|
Cut Throat |
60% |
|
Natural Causes |
60% |
|
Eaten |
53% |
|
Disease |
47% |
|
Disappear |
40% |
|
Stabbed |
40% |
|
Accident |
40% |
|
Drowning |
40% |
|
Suicide |
20% |
|
Suffocated |
13% |
What the hell? Where'd I get so many enemies?!? Guess I'd better start sitting with my back to the wall down at the local Thai/sushi joint and tiki bar that is my usual watering hole. Don't wanna die with a tall glass of Singha and a plate of o-toro sashimi in front of me. I mean, there's worse ways to go, I guess, than enjoying a plate of fatty tuna belly. I could die at MacDonald's. At least bomb or bullet is quick, right? Mebbe I better start looking for that land in the woods of Nova Scotia I've always wanted. Big fence. Mean dogs. A moat.
on
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§ 7 Comments
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At least suicide is
At least suicide is comfortingly far down the list. Apparently I am just as likely to take the gas pipe as I am to wander off into nothingness, like Jimmy Hoffa.
Also, that is one queer gun.
Also, that is one queer gun.
Yeah, that's weird, man. I
Yeah, that's weird, man. I didn't know you had bad direction sense.
I'm frankly not sure, however, that the last thought that goes through my brain as it is torn asunder by the shockwave of an assassin's bullet is "what a queer gun."
Also, turning the sense of "queer" subtly from its high-school sense of "that ain't right"/"that's stupid" to its other modern meaning, here's">http://www.pinkpistols.org/]here's queer guns, and I applaud them for it.
Sure, if some fay assassin
Sure, if some fay assassin jumps out and caps me of a sudden, I probably wouldn't think that either. Though maybe I might. But if they paraded around, telling me why they were killing me and how it fits into their scheme for world domination before shooting me, I certainly would think, "Hey, that's a queer gun." I might even tell them that.
And if there's anyone in the world who needs guns, it's queers. More power to 'em.
Oh, on another note, I also
Oh, on another note, I also have a bit of a phobia against having my throat slit, which is way up there on my list.
Not that it comes up too often, but my drowsing-asleep nightmares that happen occasionally always include one of the following: spiders, falling, partial decapitation/ throat slit, or stomach slit open such that all the guts fall out while I watch and then I die slowly, staring uncomprehendingly at the pile of stuff that should be inside me, losing the strength to try to pack them back inside again and again, much less clean off the dirt and pine needles first, and marveling that the overall sensation is not entirely unlike being stomach-punched very hard (that last usually after too many spicy meat products (e.g. kielbasa, fajitas, pulled pork 'cue) and beer).
Shootin' and bombin' ain't among them. Maybe they oughta be.
Speaking of greasy grimy guts
Speaking of greasy grimy guts, I watched the HBO special "Elizabeth I" last night. They had an altogether too graphic presentation of drawing and quartering.
Nasty.
My personal death nightmare is not so bloody. But it involves being chased into a tunnel, which slowly but inexorably becomes narrower. Then starts to angle downwards. To the point where it is impossible to back up.
I just gave myself a little frisson of existential terror thinking of it just now.
Happily, that wasn't on my list.
B,
B,
Peep the intro to "Discipline and Punish" sometime, where the would-be assassin of Louis XV gets his.
Guh.