Seeing this report from Germany got me wondering, what would be the best way to die? http://www.complex.com/city-guide/2012/11/german-woman-attempts-to-kill-boyfriend-with-breasts (it's the bit about making his death as pleasurable as possible that got me thinking, it shouldn't be taken as a sign of depression or anything like that)
There must be worse ways than in between a pair of fulsome fun bags. For me, I'd be happy with - in the worlds of Arnold J. Rimmer - "Mind that bus! What bus? Splat."
My great uncle Ernest died at Boothferry Park in 1958 during a City game and after a goal was scored (although we don't know by which team)
My Uncle, great man that he was, always said he had his death planned. He would roll out of his local, p1ssed as a newt, trip and bash his skull open on the curbstone. Nice and quick, goodnight Vienna! Poor sod never got his wish and neither will any of us (trips to Switzerland notwithstanding!)
Wasn't this the plot of a Russ Meyer film? Anyway, I'd like to live to my mid nineties and be shot, mid coitus, by a jealous husband.
I always thought I'd die of AIDS due to never bagging up whenever I went with a Chatham horror back in the day. Liver failure is the front runner now. Neither really appealed to me but what you gonna do?
Carmine, I'd avoid booking a terrace table for lunch at any Italian restaurants called Joe and Marys. Just a tip.
My mate works out in Afghanistan in private security. He did his apprenticeship with 3 PARA and 2nd REP. He always said he wouldn't mind being kidnapped and beheaded on live TV but orange didn't suit him. Therefore it wasn't an option. He is unhinged and without doubt a ticking time bomb.
Many thanks, that made me belly laugh. I haven't thought about a preferred way to die, as I refuse to believe it will happen. I got told I have 14.3% body fat today, so I'm basically a lean, mean, invincible living machine. I won't be dying.
You sound like you've got either the bad Aids already or maybe you're early stage and you're just a hiver. Either or, you're better off going out in a blaze of glory. Next time we're losing at home, run on the pitch, dowse yourself with petrol and set yourself alight on the centre spot. Match will be abandoned and you'll be a hero to thousands. You'll also save your family a lot of shame and disgrace. We've all seen Philadelphia.
These young 'uns eh? Why do do you think Michael Jackson's hair caught on fire during that Pepsi add? No ****er near him and whoosh, he's doing a Niki Lauda. Go do the math.
