I have a request, and need your help.
I love stories about archaeologists who uncover ancient burial sites and, using the collection of freaky artifacts and incomplete bone fragments found in a grave, try to piece together a cogent story about the old dead guy's life. There is always an air of mystery about these ancient people . . . a sense of untold secrets and truths withheld . . an enigma of rust and bone. One cannot look at photographs of these ancient remains and fail to ask the question – ". . . But who was he?"
Ten thousand years from now an archaeologist, famous for earlier discoveries at an ancient 21st century landfill, will uncover my grave. Thrilled at his find, he will ponder my remains, consider the artifacts that I shall leave and, after much conjecture and supposition, ask himself the question, "But who was he?" His assistant will then nudge him, point at me and say "I think he was Bob?"
This is because I intend to be buried with a nametag that say's "Hi, my name is Bob".
You see, I intend to be an intriguing corpse, and leave behind a set of remains that raise as many questions as they answer. By way of good tactics, I will be somewhat of a tease – providing enough easy answers to allow some future discoverer the endorphin rush of several quick successes, while at the same time posing other, more oblique riddles designed to make me . . . interesting.
Of course, I am counting on the fact that our future man of science will be a curious fellow, not satisfied with simple answers. If he's not, then I'm fucked. I'm not looking for the guy who reads my name tag, says, "Oh, it's just Bob", and then slams the coffin lid shut and moves on to the next plot.
No, I'm looking for the guy who will require more than just my name (although he will certainly appreciate my warm and friendly introduction). The successful candidate will yearn to understand my essence. He will hunger for context, determined to set the ragged shard of my existence correctly into the broader mosaic of time. He will wonder why I chose to carry my keys, my wallet and my cell phone into eternity. He will ponder the meaning of the pack of Marlboro Lights that he will find in my pocket, and draw reasoned conclusions from the zippo he'll find clenched in the desiccated bones of my fist. He will busy himself with these clues, and feel himself challenged as he calls upon both his common sense and intuition to find meaning in the artifacts.
However, this will all pale in comparison to the ultimate mystery this future researcher will confront under the lid of my tomb. Lighters and wallets, cigarettes and cell phones will be child's play compared the deeper and more profound question that any reasonable man of the future will ask when inspecting my remains. "Okay, I get the keys," he'll say. "I understand the wallet and cell phone. Cigarettes are stupid, but if you're gonna have them, I suppose it makes sense to have a lighter. All of that makes sense . . . . but . . . why, oh why, of all the people laid to rest at this site, did this man, AND ONLY THIS MAN, choose to be buried in a pink bunny suit?
At that point, I will have him! There will be. . . can be . . . . no reasonable answer to this question that can be intuited from the clues I intend to leave behind. Confronted by the question and driven insane with curiosity, the scientist will have no choice but to retrieve the samples of biological material I will leave stored for his convenience, create a clone and ask me.
While this, of course, is my desired outcome, I don't intend to leave this entirely to chance. I will therefore leave certain subtle clues designed to nudge the archaeologist in this direction. On my tombstone, for example, I plan to have the following latin and morse code motto engraved: Solvo DNA pro statim utor. Percunctor intus, or ..-. .-. . . / -.. -. .- / ..-. --- .-. / .. -- -- . -.. .. .- - . / ..- ... . .-.-.- / .. -. --.- ..- .. .-. . / .-- .. - .... .. -. .-.-.-
I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that initial interview. When he asks why I dressed in a pink bunny suit, I will tell him the simple truth - that I considered dressing as Dr. Frankenfurter, an Imperial Storm Trooper, Freddie Kreuger and the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, but ultimately, I chose the bunny suit for its simple, timeless elegance. With this riddle settled, I will then fill him in on the most interesting topic of the 21st century – Me!. I will have so much to share . . . so much to tell. I will talk about my life, my times, my trials and my victories. I will instruct, and so, be impossible to shut up.
It will take a while, but sooner or later, the topic will be exhausted. After I have completely answered the countless questions that he will undoubtedly have about me and my life, I will ask, in deference to my significant contribution to 12th millennia science, to be taken on a tour of the world. In light of quarter-to-quarter growth in world prosperity that will compound over the ten thousand years that will follow my death, I'm expecting quite a show.
When this is done, however, I will have a problem. You see, I expect that while I lay for a hundred centuries decomposing in my pink bunny suit, humanity will continue to evolve. It is our destiny, and it will wait for no man . . . no, not even me. When I am reanimated, therefore, I think it is safe to assume that after the sensation created by my initial appearance dies down I will, due to my dated genetics, seem little more than a drooling moron to the citizens of the 12th millennia. Indeed, if there are still women in the 12th millennia, I would be foolish to ignore my life's experience and hope for any other outcome. Of course, we all know the truth, but fairness dictates that I try to see things from my future hosts' eyes. Over time, I will grow tired of always being the last person to get a joke, and our future-citizens will grow weary of having to dumb it down for the tedious 21st century troglodyte who demands red meat at dinner and refuses to wear the spandex jumpers that will be so popular in the future.
In short, I will need company.
It is for this reason, my Friends, that I blog today. To the extent that any of you are interested in joining me to see the world of tomorrow, I have a limited amount of space left in the ice chest where I plan keep my posthumous DNA samples. Once I have charmed the aboriginal inhabitants of the 12th millennia, I will persuade them with through a regimen of perpetual nagging to reanimate the select group of fascinating people I've kept on ice back at crypt. I have done some research, and all I would need are some hair and tissue samples, a vile of blood . . . and maybe (I'm still looking into this) a little itty bitty slice of your brain.
With a couple of notable exceptions, participation is completely voluntary. Lester has already signed up, and I have his samples cooling in freezer down in the garage. (Hopefully, I haven't mixed his sample up with Ron's – Jesus, can you imagine???) Although Chris, Megan, Christine and Gary have yet to give their official consent, I have, unbeknownst to them, already set aside most of what I need (the brain part is very tricky). These are the only spots that are already spoken for; but there's still lots of room for more hearty adventurers who are up for something a little different.
It'll be great! We'll all live in a little cottage floating in the sky. We'll laugh, we'll talk, we'll wear funny hats made of aluminum foil and eat s'mors. I'm sure, if we behave ourselves, they'll allow the cottage to land from time to time and we'll be able to get out and stretch our legs.
C'mon.
It'll be fun.
FREE BEER!
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