bury my heart in your gastric acids

The face of He Who Brings Us Down.

Says here the inventor of the Pringles can, dead at 89, was interred at his request in his trademark creation. It’s a nice story, though it does feature perhaps the most ludicrous shout-out to those oh-so revolutionary 1960s the Baby Boomers won’t shut up about:

Not everyone liked the Pringles can when it first hit the market. “People resented it,” says Phil Lempert, founder of supermarketguru.com. Uniform chips didn’t gel with 1960s-era individualism, he says.

We know, dude. You guys changed the world. In between marches on Washington, rioting against police brutality, and staging sit-ins, you spent hours decrying the stifling uniformity of Pringles. (Know the face on the Pringles can? That is the actual, honest-to-God face of The Man.) The Evil knows he will never forget the march on Proctor & Gamble headquarters; talk about your profiles in courage.

This lil’ piece forced the Evil to consider how he’d like to go. Reconsider, actually—for the Evil has always known how the disposal of his mortal remains should be handled. But since no municipal body in the contiguous United States takes him seriously on this, he’s asking you, his rabid army of readers, to take charge. So! When the Evil kicks it:

1. Storm the hospital in which his body lies. At least 50 of you should be involved for a true show of force.

2. Seize his body. If necessary, use lethal force. Know what? Hell with it—definitely use lethal force.

3. Put him on ice. Trust him on this—the chances of the Evil expiring in the midst of an orgy fetid with sweat and mingling reproductive juices are fairly stratospheric.

4. Buy, rent, or steal a plane. Ah, who are we kidding? Steal it. Those stealth bombers are nice . . .

5. Fly to New Guinea. How? Simple. Take a right at Australia.

6. Drop the Evil’s body in the vicinity of a cannibal tribe. Remember the parachute! The Evil wants to be lovingly butchered into steaks, not spattered over the jungle canopy like five-alarm chili.

Yes—this has always been the Evil’s dream. He wants to be recycled. What’s more earth-friendly? What’s more circle-of-life? The Evil wants to be devoured by a tribe of cannibal gourmands who can only assume his pasty body was floated down from the heavens by their usually vengeful gods. In fact, maybe they’ll venerate him as their god!

Someone should. It has to happen sooner or later, right?

Enjoy the weekend. If possible, sample human flesh.

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