End of Me

by Michael Channing

Most people tend to think of death as a real bummer. But life is a blast all the way through, so I don't see why it can't end that way. My plan is to provide a useful service even after I shuffle off this mortal coil and, if there is an afterlife, to look down and smile at the joy I have wrought.

First, I want to leave all my blood to the band GWAR.

Because this. In case you didn't know.

Refilling a blood cannon on a nightly basis has to be cost prohibitive, so I want to do my part to maintain their supply of "fake" blood. In fact, I encourage every GWAR fan to do the same. At the end of the show, the lead singer can announce the name of that night's donor. "Thank you, Cleveland. You've just been covered in Michael Channing. Good night!"

My hair, of course, will go to Locks of Love. But to a specific branch of Locks of Love for balding headbangers born in the 70s. Right now there's some poor schmuck thinking, "I sure would love to go to the Mötley Crüe/Poison reunion tour, but I'm too embarrassed. They're getting old and may never go on tour again 'cause they'll be getting their drugs and hookers free from Medicare." But then a package arrives in the mail stamped AWESOME.

True Fact: Any package labled like this goes directly to Neil Peart's house.

It emits a mist of dry ice as he opens it to reveal a beautifully coiffured wig already spiked and sprayed with Freeze Hold, packed in a protective layering of spandex. Rock on, my unknown friend. Go on, feel that noise.

My bloodless, hairless body I leave to an independent film maker. I know there's a budding director out there with dreams of being the next George Romero who wants to have a scene in his film where someone chainsaws a zombie. But there's not enough in the budget for that kind of special effect. "Hey, wait a minute. Some one just sent us a body."

"Fire up that Texas instrument."

My final concern is how I'll be remembered once I'm pushing up the daisies. I want to be known as someone who strove to improve standup comedy. So as my legacy, I'm establishing the Michael Channing Prize for Above Average Dick Jokes.

Because that's really the best you can ask for.

Comics will be judged on originality, lack of pun, and non-use of props. You say your diminutive wife went up on you? Disqualified. What's that, your secretary is good at dick taking? Get off the stage. Dangling the microphone to your knees constitutes your impression of a black man? Kill yourself and go to hell.

Or a GWAR concert.

See, isn't comedy better already? Just wait till the dick jokes get more and more literary, incorporating subtle allusions and metaphors.

Extended metaphors. Damn, I think I just disqualified myself for my own prize.

One day there may even be a Michael Channing Dick Joke Library or possibly a dick joke scholarship fund. Sometime in the future when a comedian in a leather-patch-elbowed tweed jacket wryly sates that the root is the most evil of all money, you may be confused, but you'll also be glad he didn't pick up the stool and pretend to shoot you with his four-barrel Gatling cock.

Have fun with your own death. Die during a motivational speech, just for the irony. Die at someone else's funeral and steal their mourners. How about dying at one of my shows and letting me take the credit? We're all going to take the the big dirt nap. Oops, forgot to say SPOILER ALERT. But there's no reason death has to be dark and gloomy.

Unless you die at night.

Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard


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Vestigial by Michael Channing