Being dead means…
Means a lot on September 21, 2025.
Being dead means I don’t have to wake up in the morning.
Being dead means I don’t have to go back to bed in the evening.
Being dead means I’ll never die again—at least not in this life.
Being dead means I won’t ever have to deal with nose hair dandruff again.
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “How many pangolins can dance on the head of a pin?”
Being dead means the gnomes won’t have me to kick around anymore.
Being dead means I won’t ever die of eating mushrooms—since one at me first.
Being dead means I’ll never get around to inventing my own calendar.
Being dead means I’ll never get beaten to death by a potted plant again.
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “How much did that woodchuck in fact chuck?”
Being dead means I don’t ever have to face another fifth Sunday.
Being dead means I could be resurrected like Jebus Christ—and people will worship me!
Being dead means no matter how dark it gets, the grues can’t eat me now—except the one that did.
Being dead means my unending battles with gnomes have finally ended.
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “How now, brown cow?”
Being dead means I don’t ever have to face another Sunday of any kind.
Being dead means I won‘t need to renew my subscription to Goats Illustrated.
Being dead means I won’t need to fix that upside-down apostrophe up there either.
Being dead means the world will soon forget about this docile & perfunctory blog.
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “Is the present King of France bald?”
Being dead means I porked my last pig.
Being dead means I schtupped my last cow.
Being dead means being dead. Like, really, really dead.
Being dead means I’m finally eligible to have my face put on stamps—or money!
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “What is today’s date in the proleptic Pnårpiadic calendar?”
Being dead means Samuel Dreckers will never get that chance to assassinate me.
Being dead means the crows probably ate my corneas.
Being dead means I don’t have to trap or skin any more beavers.
Being dead means now I won’t die of dysentery or drown trying to ford a river.
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “What is the sound of no hands clapping?”
Being dead means there’s no going back.
Being dead means there’s no going forward.
Being dead means there’s no going upward.
Being dead means there’s no going downward—except to Hell (or northern California).
Being dead means I’ll never have to answer the question, “If a tree falls in the forest, and the only ones around to hear it are a clutch of wheedling, needling gnomes, do they all get squished to death under the tree? And—is the tree a God-damned hero?”