Season of the Witch

When I die, bury my mortal remains in one of these bastards so that I may communicate with the gods electronically. May I have access to e-mail in purgatory, a global positioning system to navigate my way to Valhalla, and 3G technology to signify that I am plugged in, which, in turn, will naturally impress St. Peter and thus improve my prospects of ascending to Shangri-La . Nothing says “I have absorbed cultural messages and I am able to reprocess and communicate them back” like a touchscreen coffin. I will wait outside the funeral home in sub-arctic temperatures for three days to reserve mine. In death, this product shall validate my life. I can’t wait to die.