GranolaBox

I met this woman once while I was limo driving who let it be known to everyone after two drinks that she was Irish and she worked at a crematorium. In every drunken conversation, she would artfully steer the conversation to the topic of occupations. When asked what she did, she said

“I burn people.”

And it was funny the first twenty or so times she said it.

The redeeming part of her company was that I learned that when people who have pacemakers get cremated, when the oven hits a certain temperature the pacemakers just explode. The woman said it was really loud, and usually kinda messy because the rest of the body hadn’t yet burned away at that point.

“Gross” I thought… but cool. I love explosions in any context.

One thing (although usually paired) I like more than explosions is breasts. Pacemakers aren’t the only things that do funny things in the crematorium. This description of silicon boobs is from Margaret Atwood’s book “The Robber Bride”

“Those things don’t burn burn when they cremate you either; that’s the rumor going around about artificial boobs. They just melt. The rest of you turns to ashes, but your tits to marshmallow goo; they have to scrape them off the bottom of the furnace. Maybe that’s why they didn’t scatter the ashes at Zenia’s memorial service. Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe that’s what was in that sealed tin can. Melted tits.”

So just for fun, right after I die, I’d like to have a doctor either put in a pacemaker or replace my balls with silicon balls.

That would really give the Irish girl something to talk about with her drunken friends.

Filed under: General Observations on January 23rd, 2009