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Like It Or Not, We All Die, Then Get Dug Up And Molested

For most people, death is an uncomfortable subject that they’d prefer not to dwell on, but the end of our time on this earth is an inevitability we all must accept. It’s important to face death head-on so that we can come to terms not just with our eventual passing, but also with what happens after we take our final breath. Because whether we like it or not, every single one of us is someday going to die, get dug up, and then be forcefully molested.

There’s just no avoiding it. There will come a day when you cease to exist, your remains are placed beneath the soil, and your embalmed corpse is exhumed and lovingly fondled by a stranger. It will happen to you and everybody you know, and there’s not a thing that can be done about it.

No matter what we do with our lives, death, followed by disinterment and repeated, ritualistic defilement, comes for us all.

This is, understandably, a hard truth for some people to accept. After all, no one likes to envision themselves dying, much less having their body dragged out of the dirt and felt up by some sick degenerate. But surely it’s better to acknowledge this reality than it is to live a life of fear, dreading the day you’ll be buried for a few hours before being unearthed by a lust-crazed drifter who passionately sniffs at your groin and takes a few photos before heaving you back into your burial plot with your clothes on backward.

The very idea of this can be enough to keep a person awake at night, which is a tragedy. Trust me: No amount of lost sleep is going to stop a lonely grave digger from jimmying open your casket, dragging your cadaver back to his shack, outfitting you in his deceased wife’s favorite dress, running his hands up and down your desiccated frame, and planting a trembling kiss on your cold, blood-drained lips every night before he goes to sleep.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Granted, the particulars of one’s death and subsequent molestation can vary considerably. You might donate your body to science, in which case a sexually frustrated medical student could sneak into the lab in the middle of the night, maneuver you into a position of his choosing, and then vigorously slap and manipulate every last inch of your anatomy. Or perhaps one day you will simply pass on due to old age, at which point a depraved man will slip the morgue technician 20 bucks in exchange for an hour alone with you, propping you up in a chair and staring into your clouded, unblinking eyes while he plays with himself. Then he’ll cut off your hair and fingernails to make some sort of freakish collage when he returns home, and that will be that.

And if you’re cremated, it pretty much goes without saying that someone’s eventually going to break into your heirs’ home under cover of darkness and ejaculate into the urn containing your incinerated remains.

No matter how you ultimately depart your mortal flesh and then have it violated, you can take some measure of comfort knowing your final destination is no different from anyone else’s, including all the truly great men and women who have passed through this world: William Shakespeare, Frederick Douglass, Mother Teresa, John Lennon, Eleanor Roosevelt, and so many more. The same thing happened to all of them: They all lived and died, and were then ripped from the earth and positioned spread-eagle on the ground, posthumously fulfilling God knows how many inexpressibly perverse fantasies. Just as you will.

It is simply the natural cycle at work. Why, even as we speak, someone is being born, another is perishing, and thousands of human remains are being tenderly licked, caressed, and probed by backwoods recluses.

So shrink not from your death and desecration, friends! That day will most assuredly come, but what of it? Until it does, live. Laugh, play, dance, fall in love with someone who truly cares about you and whose splayed corpse will someday be profaned atop your own adjacent burial mound.

For, as a wise man once said, he who lives fully is prepared to die and have his naked, putrefying corpse draped over his own headstone for a night of the most brutal befoulment by a gang of necrophilic Satanists.

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When George Lucas’ Star Wars premiered in 1977, the movie quickly became a phenomenon. On its 40th anniversary, The Onion looks back on the franchise’s defining moments:

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