Death smells like moth balls

Sick men are like babies. Scratch that. Sick men ARE babies. A persistent fever of 103 never killed anyone, geez. Suck it up. But either way, I decided that should I survive this douse of bubonic plague, I was going to go coffin shopping. It's kinda like shoe shopping, but it's not.



So I shopped around. This is the type of casket I want. Very smart. This is the corpse carriage I want our Lord and Saviour to see me in when She greets me at the pearly gates. Very smart, it makes a smacking statement.

Then I looked in my wallet and realized this is probably all I could afford - a d-i-y version of a pine box. Pffffff. Just throw me in an oven. I probably wouldn't even feel the heat given my persistent fever of 103.