Final Arrangements For My Death

I've tackled the tricky subject of my demise, which I hope is still years away. Not for me the slow drawn out existence in a nursing home, paying for my keep out of my savings and pension, nor do I want to lie on a hospital bed when the last thing I see are loved ones crying at my bed side and doctors and nurses with grim faces hovering in the background, just waiting to harvest my reusable bits.
If I discover that some fatal cancer has taken hold of my body or I reach a time when I can no longer be expected to live an independent life, then I will secure a large bottle of extra strong Mogadon pills or similar and take myself off to a comedy show, preferably in London at a top venue and secure my own box with champagne, a large joint, some Belgium chocolates and a soft cushion. I want to die at the right moment, tears of laughter streaming down my cheeks and with the sound of other peoples laughter in my ears.
After I die, I want to be buried at sea, not cremated, my whole body must be consigned to Davy Jones Locker, deep six it, weighted down and sunk.
I can think of no sound that is more sensual or soporific than the sound of the sea, combined with its motion, its the most beautiful experience I have ever had, instant penile reaction.
Its my way of giving back to this earth that has amazed me, fed me, clothed me and at times left me stunned with its beauty.
The little fishes will eat my body and then the bigger fishes will eat them and so on until eventually they will be caught in the nets and served up as food. With any luck, within 12 - 18 months I'll find myself back inside at least a dozen women, however if my luck doesn't hold I could end up inside a tin of cat food on a supermarket shelf.