A stiff with stuffies

and space archelogists

I have a wonderfully apocalyptic imagination. I love to imagine the end of times. It’s a wonderfully liberating thing to do - imagine all the ways the world could end. How free we’d all be. If everything stopped at once and there was nothing left? Then what? At least there would be stuffed animals.

You see I don’t have apocalyptic fantasies out of a sense of existential dread. It never occurs to me to worry about the end of times. It’s never fear that makes me imagine the apocalypse. Instead? My fantasies are funny.

They always involve space archeologists.

That’s right: space archeologists. They’d have their space suits and their space workers and their little space brushes and shovels and other space archelogy gear. They’d probably be part of some sort of intergalactic royal society for the discovery of weird things in the dirt on other worlds.

As a small child, I always wanted to be buried with my stuffed animals. I want them right there in the coffin with me. They’ll keep me safe wh…