(SNN) I occasionally remind my wife that if I ever become utterly useless (utterly the key word here) I want her to treat me like an Inuit, or Intuitive or whatever it is Eskimos prefer these days. 

This is not meant to be disrespectful of our brave and noble Frozen-Americans, by the way. After all, some of my best friends eat Eskimo Pies and my agent has a Pied a Terre in Antarctica. I frequently stop by, he throws some blubber on the barbie and breaks out the Pouilly Fuisse, an amusing little vintage called Chateau Tuesday.

Where were we? Oh yeah, violating P.C. rules. Okay, let me get to my point, if indeed I have one.

I recently took stock of my mortality upon the one-year anniversary of a near fatal event.  I updated and fine tuned some paperwork and various other tasks associated with life’s end. Number one with a bullet? Try not to get hit by a bullet.

Next: I reviewed my DNR Order. When I reach the point where the letters authorizing “Do Not Regurgitate”  kicks in, I’ve asked my wife or guardian, whichever comes first, to do two things: 1. Stop my DNR from kicking me. 2. Write yet another scathing letter to SpellCheck.

 My DNR authorizes my Guardian, or, in an emergency, the next guy to walk through the door, to set me adrift on an ice flow in the North Sea. (Not the Bering Sea: I’d hate being dragooned by Deadliest Catch to become the new Greenhorn on HMS Crabby McCrabbington.)

I am not a complete fool, all evidence to the contrary, so I don’t want to be uncomfortable when set adrift. I want the comforts of home on my last voyage. I’ll need Cheese Doodles, Direct TV (with the NFL Package), and a case of Maker's Mark by my Barcalounger. If there is no ice left to flow anymore due to climate change, I'll take a houseboat or a guided missile frigate.

If I should croak unexpectedly just stand me up next to the garbage in my hat. I know Lou Grant said that first on Mary Tyler Moore, but who doesn’t admire Lou Grant?

As for burial vs cremation. I asked my loved ones and friends and the overwhelming vote was “both, just to be safe.” When I re-asked the question of relatives broken down by sex, most argued that liquor was more of a problem in our family.

I also renewed my organ donation card because when I’m dead I won’t care who’s pounding on my Wurlitzer.

One question. Why buy a burial plot and an expensive coffin for your last adventure? Not denying that some caskets are damn nifty looking—I’ve got my eye on a naugahyde and Ostrich feather model—but if it looks so great in a showroom why bury the damn thing? The only time you’ll see it again is if the cemetery is flooded and it pops to the surface, or the cops decide maybe you were murdered, need another look at your corpse. Not a pretty sight, especially if you don’t get enough time to properly dress for the occasion.

So if I were you—and you should pray God I’m not—I’d opt for a Balsa Wood Coffin, be cremated thoroughly, and then have my ashes scattered over Blake Lively. (FYI I got a very snippy letter from her reps when I asked if I could be spread over her before I died.)     

So kids, if you are beginning to see the end of the tunnel fast approaching, either get the hell out of the tunnel or check your post mortem plans, unless of course you’re a Vampire.    

Photo Credit: Some Rights Reserved. Image from Clinton Steeds flcikr photostream.  Original photo can be found here.