Six Million Ways To Die

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Bob Dylan “Going, Going, Gone”

 

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I have often pondered how I shall meet my maker when the time comes. I’ve always preferred the notion that it would be in a blaze of glory rather than a careless whisper but, after five seasons of watching Six Feet Under, I’d be prepared now for all but the most ridiculous of encores. A gloriously wasted youth watching horror movies has given me plenty of food for thought and a plethora of different ways of walking towards the light. Nobody wants to go out like Frank from Hellraiser. All those hooks and chains would be a step too far for my fetishes but when you look at Glen from A Nightmare on Elm Street, at least his telly got sucked into the hole with him to keep him company while Freddy shredded him like confetti.

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It gets me thinking about some of my favorite dispatches and many of you will already be aware of my darlings. The nitrogen head freeze from Jason X would come out favorably. It was all over in a jiffy, faster than you could smash a bag of marbles in fact and with similar end results. Nobody wants to draw the experience out, when death swoops in I’m sure we all wish it to be swift and painless. Well actually, call me a freak, but am I only one present who was the vaguest bit aroused by the notion of being scythed Hostel Part II-style over a bath housing a naked vixen? Delicate distribution of pain seems to be the answer if you’re looking to prolong your agony.

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Who could forget the moment in I Spit on Your Grave when Jennifer finally gets to exact her retribution on those who committed such atrocities on her? Johnny seemed to rather dig the feeling of having his Johnson snipped from its root until he ran the bath water away and realized she’d made off with Mr Winkle. That young couple from Friday the 13th Part 2 got an even better two-for-one deal and got to enjoy those last few pumps before their inevitable spearing. If you ask me, Voorhees can be surprisingly considerate. As well as being a life-sized prophylactic were you aware of his aptitude as a chiropractor? No, not velociraptor; you know the dude who can fix your back up good. Sheriff Garris was offered a free consultation in Jason Lives and it really sorted out his slipped disc.

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He wasn’t always congenial as attested in The Final Chapter’s infamous hacksaw head-swivel kill. Presumably he recognized Bruce Mahler from Police Academy and took instant steps to prevent any more insipid sequels. He also wasn’t a fan of Back To The Future evidently as Crispin Glover discovered before the evening was through. Thankfully he loved The Goonies so Corey Feldman was allowed to live. Throughout his illustrious career he fashioned many a cavity as he staked his claim as the ultimate slasher juggernaut. This run included rooftop fisticuffs at dusk, when Jason was in his edgy street phase as he took Manhattan. Whilst his knockout blow was hardly what one would call the act of a Samaritan at least he tidied up his mess afterwards and recycled any trash.

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I wouldn’t fancy going out like Quint from Jaws if truth be known. Being digested on-the-spot by a gargantuan shark has always been a distinct fear of Keeper’s. To be fair, being consumed at all hardly warrants much excitement and The Deadly Spawn had even less etiquette. One could only imagine the acid reflex after those gnashers had their way. Apparently they are looking for a qualified dental hygienist but fuck being the one to apply the Novocaine. I’m fairly assured that being eaten wouldn’t be the most desirable way to go so I’m striking that straight off my wish list. That leaves 5,999,999 ways to perish and I’m going to stump on one before the end if it kills me.

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Maybe it would be cool to have my face melted off? The Toxic Avenger met such a fate and it never seemed to bother him. Or a few swigs of Viper from Street Trash followed by a tub of The Stuff for dessert? Nope, I’m afraid I’m still struggling to see the appeal. Robocop already put me off the whole meltdown idea. Even worse would be succumbing to the malevolent power of Silver Shamrock. Poor snot-nosed Little Buddy, hardly a hair on his beanbag and he’s got snakes gushing out of his face. No Cochran I will not watch the magic pumpkin. Alright maybe just a little but only because the song is so damned infectious.

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One thing definitely out would be the old peeper puncture. Ever since my first view of Zombie Flesh Eaters this has been a particular bone of contention with Keeper. Give me the Deadites any day of the week; at least they pop ’em out on the fly rather than cramming a slab of plywood slowly into one’s optical cavity. Speaking of soft fleshy areas you wouldn’t wish to be penetrated, how about one’s boobies. Admittedly I am not in possession of a pair of these fun satchels but, should Cannibal Ferox be any kind of yard-stick, then I’d say piercing was a distinct no-no. Don’t even get me started on Mike from the very same film. Having your old fella lopped off with a rusted machete is one thing but being bolted under a table while a tribe chows down on your freshly peeled back cerebellum straight afterwards is entirely another. I don’t desire to be finger foods when I go.

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How about taking a bullet or two? I watched a lot of Spaghetti Westerns growing up and it all appears relatively painless. You take your shrapnel, clutch your injury, perform one death stare and then slide to your knees. Easy right? Somebody really ought to tell Peter Weller as he’s been on a fistful of nothing since having his hand blown clear off its stump. Ed-209 will do the exact same job for a snip of the price and will never be anything less than totally thorough. It could all go Shelley Long still; that plucky Friesian from Me, Myself & Irene put me off of the idea so I don’t think firearms are necessarily the way to go either.

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Then we have the old burning or drowning conundrum. I can give clear examples why neither would be particularly favorable. Damien: Omen II gave me the chills for weeks after Bill Atherton fell through that thin ice and was swept away in a current while everybody watched on helplessly. I suppose it could have been worse as having your eyes pecked out by a raven and hit by a forty ton juggernaut took the biscuit but still I question its validity. Burning to death, on the other hand, really doesn’t have a whole lot going for it. From what I am led to believe, once those top epidermal sheets are frazzled, the nerve endings become shot and the whole affair becomes relatively painless. However, what if it all went awry? Cropsey learned the hard way and that misfiring prank left him both crispy and cranky.

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If you ask me, Benjamin Button got the best deal. He got the arthritic joints and cataracts out the way at birth and steadily devolved over the course of his lifespan. Finally, at the age of ninety, after a short stint of puberty, he was carefully placed back in the womb. Reverse psychology appears to have its merits and I can think of worse ways of biting the bullet although nappy costs can easily pile up when you’re on a measly state pension and a dash of colic isn’t the best way to spend your twilight years. Starman really received the shit-end of the stick as, no sooner had the umbilical cord been cut, than he was in his mid-forties and battling a mid-life crisis when he should have been breast-feeding.

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A little hindsight can be a marvelous thing and watching that video tape in Ringu seems like a far more humane and thoughtful demise. At least you have seven days to work through your bucket list before Sadako drags herself out of the well and scares you to death. On the flip side, can you fully enjoy your remaining time when waiting for the death curse to strike? If Mrs Ganush is anything to go by then the answer would be a resounding no. Thus being dragged to hell can also be struck off the list. I’m sure Alison Lohman would’ve taken slipping away in her sleep to being ushered to the center of the earth by a thousand flaming succubi.

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I’m running out of ideas Grueheads. None of the aforementioned sound particularly attractive and I’m still no closer to finding the ultimate way to meet your maker. I’m starting to question whether watching horror movies 24/7 is a good idea after all. There seems to be a degree of suffering involved no matter what as none of these poor bastards seem to be able to catch a break. All things considered, I have traveled full circle in my quest to find the ultimate swan song. Being hacked to death by a sickle à la Hostel Part II is beginning to look like the thinking man’s way to go. It’s decided, when my time on Earth is ready to expire, someone hang me up by my feet and chip away at the old block. Oh and feel free to bathe in my excess fluids.

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