I Am A Mummy

Top Headlines

Recent News

Cake Just Sitting There

Take It

CHICAGO—Assuring you that there was nothing to worry about and not a soul around who would see you, sources confirmed Tuesday that a large piece of chocolate cake was just sitting there and that you should go ahead and take it.

Where Your Political Donation Goes

With over $1 billion spent in the 2016 presidential race alone, campaign donations continue to cause much controversy and even confusion for their role in shaping politics. Here is a step-by-step guide to how the average American’s political donation travels through a campaign

Roommate Skulking Around Edge Of Party Like Victorian Ghost Child

SEATTLE—Appearing initially in the far corner of the living room and then several minutes later on the threshold between the kitchen and the hallway, local roommate Kelsey Stahl was, by multiple accounts, seen skulking around the edge of a house party Friday like a Victorian ghost child.
End Of Section
  • More News
Up Next

I Am A Mummy

In 1968, anticipating my imminent demise and wishing to go to the grave looking sharp, I took the precaution of having myself mummified. My major organs were carefully removed by eminent Egyptian physicians and stored in special alabaster jars. (Except for my spleen, whose jar was knocked over and subsequently consumed by field-mice, and my brain, which I still need.)

The only problem is, I have lived far longer than anticipated, and have, as a result, had to endure years of weekly embalming sessions just to keep up the façade. I am normally very co-operative with the embalmers, except when they attempt to remove my brains through my nostrils with an elongated hook. But, with my hollow chest cavity replenished weekly with preserving spices and emolients, and my withered skin slathered with a rare, fragrant oil from the Orient, I am secure in the knowledge that the embalmers generally know what they are doing, and I try not to get in their way.

My mausoleum, too, is being prepared for my expiration. Artisans are at work painstakingly hand-carving a sarcophagus of solid gold, and labor daily on elaborate wall frescoes depicting key events in my life. That way, I may spend an eternity blissfully reliving such glorious times as when The Onion reached a land-mark 50,000 circulation and when I stabbed Brickton Atlas-Trumpet editor P. Oliver Gummidge 17 times with an awl. Crate-loads of solid-gold tubes and catheters, cod-liver oil, and a platinum-coated iron lung have been placed in my burial-chamber as well.

There is, however, a slight wrinkle in the funeral plans. When I pass on, naturally, a few dozen of my loyal servants will be buried alive with me so that they may serve me in the after-life. But there is no way that I will permit that hideous metallic ro-bot nurse of mine to eternally insert thermometers up my rectum! I will simply have to find another nurse. But whom? Certainly not my previous one, the foul traitoress who up and left me without notice!

Now I live in cold fear, not of my actual demise, but that I shall die, and that they will ship that evil mechanical ro-bot down to my burial chamber to forever stare at me with its menacing red eyes!


Sign up For The Onion's Newsletter

Give your spam filter something to do.

X Close