Monday, November 24, 2008

No-brainers, ground beef and clones OR Faking your own death is harder than it looks, take it from me OR Band on the run

I need to fake my own death, and I need to do it quick. I owe some bad people a lot of money and I need to go underground for awhile.

The tricky part is, the “bad people” are the Great State of New Mexico, and I’ve contracted to work for them for a year and a half upon my successful graduation - on the condition that they would pay my tuition.

But as it turns out, working for the state is no fun at all, plus my brother Brennan and my friends Shane and Kristen have a van, and they want to go on a full band tour this summer.

Hmmmm. Work for the state and deal with abused kids and crappy parents all day every day OR play punkrockdancepopcore every night in different locations across the country and live in a van? Seriously, which would you choose? If that’s not a “no-brainer,” I don’t know what is. And if you said “work for the state,” then just leave. Read another blog. Oh yeah, and submit your name to the “Lame Hall of Fame.” They induct people every year and you’re a shoo-in.

Problem is, if I don’t work for the state they say I am in “default,” and I have to pay all the tuition money back, which is a tidy, tidy sum. And if I don’t pay it back promptly, Bill Richardson (the governor of New Mexico and former Democratic Party presidential candidate) will come to my house with a Louisville Slugger and break my kneecaps. And I think it’s bad for my credit rating.

Hence the need to fake my own death.

So we were brainstorming ways to do it. Shane had some good ideas (and he has a corresponding blog about them here), but I wasn’t coming up with much.

My first idea was ground beef. I was thinking of throwing a bunch of ground beef and my sweatshirt in front of a train. That way, when I suddenly default on my contract and turn up missing, the authorities will discover my gory “remains” on the tracks. With my sweatshirt at the scene, the cops will have to conclude I’m dead. I think I would also throw in a fake suicide note to seal the deal.

But what if the cops DNA test the ground beef or something forensic like that? I would be up a ground beef creek without a paddle. Then, instead of the headlines reading “Promising young, extremely good looking social worker ends it all with grisly train track suicide,” they will read “Police find pile of ground beef, sweatshirt on train tracks.”

So logically my next idea was a clone. Everyone knows that in science fiction when people want to fake their own deaths they will make a clone of themselves, kill it and then get away scot-free.

But then again I’m not sure that technology even exists yet, and I imagine a clone-making vat costs more than college tuition. Plus, there would be all these moral dilemmas that weren’t there when it was just ground beef.

And so, with forensic science against me, limited funds, and pretty much only two ideas, I have decided not to fake my own death after all. Unless someone else comes up with some better ways to do it, and they don’t mind if I borrow them.

Until then, “Lame Hall of Fame” here I come.