Bear Chesting

As far as science has come, it has yet to surpass the rowdy superiority of pop culture's endless influence and misguided trajectory through modernity. Take, for example, the detective drama; for years, from Murder She Wrote to Law and Order, we've watched murder deconstructed, reconstructed, explained and itemized, one would think we as a culture had learned how to 'get away with it'.

A Canadian car model, who was in California at the time, was found with her teeth extracted and fingers severed, leaving seemingly no way for anyone to trace or track down the poor woman's identity. However, allow us to site item two on our tour of science's short comings in the face of pop culture, the breast implant. Said woman was identified solely by the serial numbers implanted below the surface of her skin, an area, though penetrable and retrievable, not scoured by our poor victim's assailant.

Now I've heard of serial numbers on all sorts of transplants, synthetic hips, knees, shoulders, pig heart valves and such, and I'm pretty sure I knew breast implants were numbered for the purpose of tracking manufacturing failures. Though, never would I think that this would be the way authorities would track the identity of a murder victim.

It really makes you think twice about the things you decide to do to yourself. Bearing in mind that at any point you could wake up dead, or find yourself in a bathtub full of ice with an important organ missing, do you really want to be remembered as the woman identified by her breast implants, or the guy with a tattoo of a dinosaur copulating with a toaster oven. What if you were found in a foreign hotel room in ladies underwear hanging from a rope? Or hanging from your own belt?

Famed unabomber Ted Kazinski was found on the floor of his prison cell naked from the waist down with his underwear wrapped around his neck, someone jokingly mused at the time, "Either he tried to hang himself or he got lucky." But that would have been his memory. The more I think about it, the things I do on a day to day basis, make my death kind of sad.

If I were in a fatal accident tomorrow at work, they wouldn't find drugs in my system, no regrettable tattoos, nothing sordid in my past really, what they would find is a truly destitute individual with a stomach of iced coffee, bread and acid reflux, a bloodstream flooded with nicotine and the remnants of my thoughts, the physical manifestation, without any electric impulses, no ideas, just mass. I would be inanimate mass, and that is what I would leave behind.

I think the moral of this story is to get more shameful or regrettable tattoos, do as many terrible things as possible, be remembered as the most horrific trainwreck who ever walked the streets, endless head-shaking and tooth-sucking, shameful testaments to a life lived to it's utmost.

So from now on, I make this pledge, no longer will I be caught without food in my stomach, or the mar of drunk-decisions across my body, I vow to live out loud, to sing my own fucking praises and most important of all, to get breast implants, I haven't decided where yet, I'm thinking my feet, if they get long enough I'll have my pick of the best shit at City Sports Basement. Yep, it's going to be awesome.