The year is 2082. I’m 89 years old. I’m dying, surrounded by my large, devoted family. I prepare my final wishes as my children hold my hand.
“Divide my assets amongst yourselves, sell the house to start college funds for the grandchildren, and throw my ashes into the ocean. All I want is a small plaque by my childhood home with my name and dates, saying “Rest In Deace.”
My oldest leans in, confused, “Do you mean ‘Rest in Peace,” Mom? What does deace mean?“
I beckon him closer with one hand, and move the other a bit further down the bed.
“Deace nuts, bitch.”
My family screams in horror as I flatline and immediately descend into Hell.