I was reading the news and saw that a scientist named Christian Reiter claims that composer Ludwig Von Beethoven may have accidentally been killed by his doctor. According to Reiter the doctor’s attempts to ease the suffering involved puncturing the abdominal cavity, and sealing the wound with a lead-laced poultice.
It sounds really interesting but Ludwig’s doctor killing him is sub par compared the fact that people even care.
I realized that Ludwig has been dead since 1827. That means that 180 years after his death he is still important enough to study. Beethoven’s work and life was so important that scientists are willing to debate on the cause of his death.
What if 180 years from now super-space-cosmic-scientists want to study my body?
What if in a 180 years not much else takes place that is more significant than what I did my in my life? What if between now and then the only things that are important are a few wars, Angelina Pitt, the Squirrel Revolution, President Oprah, and my life?
It’s a sad 180, but someone’s going to have to live them.
I can see the conference where the scientists discuss their findings.
“After two days of research we discovered that Brad Basker was a pretty cool guy. He liked chicken strip dinners and yoo-hoos. He wore boxers and briefs. He loved to read Jane Austen books and the bible. We have concluded that not only was he more important than Beethoven, but he was also more attractive.”
That’s probably how it will go.
Thinking about the people of the future studying my corpse also opens up the question of how I want to die. I don’t think id go out like a chump like Beethoven. C’mon lead poisoning? That’s not intense at all. I was watching King Arthur the other day and that gave me some good ideas.
Wouldn’t it be awesome to be out on the battlefield with my knights of the unsavory table making some great monologue about honor and fate. I’d let out my battle cry and charge against the odds. I wouldn’t ride a horse though. I’d have to ride a unicorn with wings. Her name would be Damsel.
If not dying on battlefield next to Damsel I would have say I’d like to take a bullet for somebody. I’ve played the scenario out a thousand times, and it always works out the same way, except the person I save changes. In my mind I’ve saved presidents, friends, hobos, and pop singers all in slow motion. It ends up with me in their arms telling them to tell my wife I wont be home to watch King Arthur with her tonight, and that I am sorry that I left my underwear in the kitchen.
But I don’t think of death so extravagantly. I don’t want people to cry when I am gone. I want them to laugh. Maybe read this and think “Wow, I think I’m gonna miss that guy.”
I don’t want people to see my body. Its so depressing and it looks like your loved ones have been painted in cheap make up. That’s not how you should remember people.
I want to be burned. Take my ashes and send them to the cosmos and the seas so that I can feel the waves and float in nothingness. No great speeches, no lead poisoning just cremation and good memories. Aside from being burnt crispy the only thing I want after my demise is for someone to say “You know Brad really was a lot cooler than Beethoven.”