Well, kids, I know where I'm going when I die. I'm not talking about anything supernatural or metaphysical...I'm talking about the physical reality of death and what's gonna happen to this old, Parky body of mine.

I MAY be coming to a Medical School near YOU!

That's right, boys and girls. My body, my Earthly remains, this vessel I've been using to walk around with since 1955 will revert to the Anatomy Gifts Registry at the moment I shuffle off this mortal coil. Got a nice little letter and two laminated cards to prove it. The letter thanks me for "my admirable decision to help advance medical science and education." The cards give instructions for what Gail should do the minute I curl up my toes and stop responding to outside stimulus.

WHAT TO DO AT TIME OF PASSING

(That's cute. "Passing." Like I'm an NFL quarterback. "GO LONG, JIM! I'LL HIT YOU NEAR THE PYLON!")

1. Death should be confirmed by proper authorities (i.e., call 911).

Good idea! I might just be taking a nap. Hate to have to disappoint the AGR people when they show up with the wagon, only to have to tell them I'm not dead yet. Best have these things confirmed by experts first.

2. Once death is pronounced, CALL AGR, not a Funeral Home.

Again, good idea! The last thing we want is for some funeral home guys standing around getting into fist fights with the AGR guys over who gets the carcass.

3. If there is no letter on the front of the donor number on this card, AGR must obtain a telephone consent from the legal next-of-kin.

No worries there. We have a letter in front of my donor number. It's a "W".

4. Once consent is given, AGR will make all necessary arrangements with a local mortuary service to assist in the body donation process.

That means they'll send someone they trust to pry my corpse out of the bathtub, or wherever it may happen to be when the angels come calling.

THEY HAVE EVERYTHING COVERED AND TAKEN CARE OF!

They'll pick and choose what to chuck or use. My brain could wind up in a brain bank somewhere for further study of Parkinson's disease. My spine and other joints could go to an orthopedic college to be used to study the affects of osteoarthritis. My liver and kidneys could be donated to some institute to determine how well they filtered the gallons of scotch I've consumed in my lifetime. I try not to think about my intestines being used as sausage casings or other such inappropriate uses, which AGR swears will never happen because they will treat my body with respect and dignity until they burn the scraps and ship them to Gail.

And none of this will cost her a cent!

Hey, ya gotta die sometime. And rather than put my family through the morbid and macabre ritual of the American funeral where everyone comes to get a glimpse at my nicely embalmed corpse while they talk about me like I'm not even THERE (which, of course, I won't be), better this old jalopy gets used for parts.

It's the SCIENTIFIC thing to do!

Now, let's just hope this isn't the opening chapter of some Stephen King-like novel where I start seeing a black van with the AGR logo following me... waiting... watching... and what will they do when they get IMPATIENT?

Brr...

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