It was an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning. Not even Satan was awake yet to perform his rounds. As I bolted upright in bed, beads of sweat poured down my forehead, despite the subfreezing temperature in my poorly heated room. I sprinted to the bathroom hoping to find sweet relief. What I found, instead, was a smoldering nightmare. I was about to realize exactly why you shouldn’t eat Burger King’s latest Angry Whopper.

This gastronomic nightmare features angry onions, jalapeños, pepper jack cheese, an “Angry” sauce and 55 grams of fat. It’s the culinary equivalent of sending a bunker buster down your colon. I wasn’t sure if I was going to survive those 30 minutes in the two by two confines of the stall. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you are in the Grim Reaper’s clutches. Well, my friends, I’ve seen the Spectre himself, and it was my afterlife that flashed before my eyes. Images of a stuffy eulogy, a lame tombstone and sitting on my ass in a grave for eternity haunted my imagination.

From that moment, I swore I would have the sickest afterlife ever.

I started by planning out the ultimate funeral. First, no fewer than five coroners will publicly check my pulse and breathing. I wouldn’t want to go six feet under if I’m just sleeping off some Taco Bell. Sermons and flowers are so last millennium, so I decided to go with a “strippers and sake” theme. And I don’t want a bunch of Debbie Downers killing the mood, so I’ll have a stand up comic give me one last roast to help the grieving process for those mourning my loss.

“I’m not saying Eichberg performs unspeakable acts with vegetables, but let’s just say he makes those PETA folks look like Mennonites,” he would say. Then, after the skydiving Elvis impersonators have landed, the children will beat the candy out of a life-size piñata in my image. Then they will dance.

Now for what to do with my earthly remains. I don’t want to just decompose in a pit like an asshole. I’m not a fan of maggots, and plus, the only people who hang around cemeteries are emo kids, old people and graverobbers. Talk about eternal damnation. I’m also leery of graveyards because back home there’s a church that has a tombstone memorializing a man named Butt, right next to one for a man named Ball. I can’t take the risk of Eichberg ever becoming euphemistic fodder for giggling kindergartners.

I also don’t want to get cremated, as incredibly high temperatures give me horribly dry skin. There’s no moisturizer in hell, after all.

Instead of just letting my body parts go to waste, I’d rather make some money out of it. I’ll order the executor of my will to auction off choice body parts to eccentric collectors. Want a new mead goblet for your throne on Death Mountain? Buy my skull. Does arthritis hurt your knees every time it rains? Try mine on for size; I’ve kept them in great shape. The rest of my body will be put in a high-pressure chamber so my carbon will be converted into diamond. Somewhere, a new bride is going to be very happy wearing me on her finger.

All the money that my body has raised will go straight into the charitable organization I’ve set up in my honor, the Daniel Underground Monetary Pool. DUMP’s mission statement is to change the world in a way that directly benefits people who share similar opinions and interests with me. First order of business: change the National Anthem to “Higher Ground” by Stevie Wonder. It’s a much catchier song with much more poignant lyrics. I mean, what exactly is a “spangle” anyway?

Next, DUMP will bulldoze all bowling alleys and convert them into vehicle emissions testing facilities. Bowling is a smelly, boring, non-sport, and I’m sick of driving all the way to Glen Burnie, Md. to get my car inspected.

With any money that’s still left, I will build statues of myself wearing my old clothes and spread them throughout the world. See, most people know that ghosts can teleport. But what most people don’t know is that they can only teleport to an area marked by one of their earthly possessions, such as an old shoe or girdle. This is why a lot of ghosts are stuck going back and forth between the garbage dump and New Jersey. Talk about eternal damnation.

I’ll put one statue in the park so I can invisibly glide up to a couple on a date, plant a fart during a romantic moment, and enjoy their hilarious expressions. I’ll also put one statue in my old house so I can check up on my wife every now and then. You know, to make sure she’s not dating anyone.