Death by Viking

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately, which I suppose is only natural since I have a job. Thoughts such as, “Dying might actually be better than doing this bullshit” and “If I were dead I wouldn’t have to be here right now” have become rather commonplace. This type of thinking inevitably gives way to a tantalizing variety of at-work-death-scenario fantasies, all of which are at least somewhat pathetic because they involve me dying in my cubicle. The most realistic (and, consequently, pathetic) is probably the death-by-severe-paper-cut scenario. I much prefer the more implausible one wherein a bloodthirsty Viking infiltrates the office and cuts me down mid-keystroke.

But of course I don’t want to die in my cubicle, because no matter how such a death might transpire (the bloodthirsty Viking scenario included), dying inside a cubicle is an automatic disqualifier from Valhalla. I’d much rather be cut down by a bloodthirsty Viking on the battlefield. And what’s more, I’d like to be really, really old when it happens.

I have no desire to enter Odin’s golden hall before I reach 30, or for that matter, before I reach even 80 or 90. I want to plunder my way to a ripe old age. I mean seriously, why be dead when you could be boozing, wenching, headbanging, and playing ice hockey and videogames for 50+ years? Granted, the prerequisite escape from life’s work sentence is a tall order indeed.

But supposing parole from that godawful atrocity is a possibility, then my only other real problem with this particular fantasy would lie in the search for someone who would be Viking enough to cut me down 65 years from now. There aren’t many Vikings left in the world, and even though the Modern Viking Movement saw a great revival in general Viking behavior, I doubt there’ll be another in my lifetime. My only real hope is that someone like Trond Troll-Breath lives as long as I do. That way, when I feel that the time has come, I could fly over to his pimpin’ mansion in Norway and assault him with my cane while using my catheter bag as a shield. He could pummel me over the head with his oxygen tank, and if we’re lucky, maybe, just maybe, we could feast together in Valhalla afterwards.


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