I am by no means a self-catastrophist. Let’s just get that out of the way. In fact, I know that I cannot die for some time because I have yet to fulfill my prophetic destiny of becoming one with the nothingness that consumes us all, and walking the earth as an omnipotent vagabond draped by my legend and cloaked by the blinding light of my immense glory, searching endlessly for the Snickers bar that escaped my grasp in the fall of 1988.

Despite knowing this, I still like to ponder words that would make a befitting epitaph for an individual as amazing as myself. Lately I’ve been wondering what I would have inscribed on my glorified toe tag if I were buried in California. This is highly unlikely, since my mother would not allow me to be buried in anything other than the worm-soaked soil of the Great Plains state you call Ohio. However, I have figured out a way. Thanks to the fact that Ohio is governed by ass-backward reactionist leaders who strategically label themselves as "moderate” conservatives, California wine cannot be shipped to Ohio without proper taxing and licensing. So let’s say the blond and I take a trip to Sonoma wine country and one of the winery owners has an intense liking for because he’s more than a bit off his rocker. Now this professional wino takes us to the back and shows us 500-gallon barrel of wine. "Go ahead and drink from the tap,” he says. Never being one to back down from a dare, I do so. I put my mouth under the stainless steel spicket and tug on the tap. 

Unfortunately, some idiot tig welded a grade 316 spicket to the 309 pipe inside the barrel using 347 tig wire. Now we all know that without proper heating precautions 347 undergoes a metallurgical phenomenon called Constitutional Liquation in which a precipitate forms and creates a stress point for expanding grain boundaries, causing them to crack. On top of that the dilution resulting from the poorly matched materials will create chrome-carbide precipitates that rob the HAZ of the chrome that protects the material from corrosion. So after a few moments of enjoying the fermented nectar, the damn levy breaks and wine rushes down my throat, bypasses my gastrol tube and goes straight for the lungs. I fall flat on my back. The blond faints, and the owner is too far-gone to do anything. So, I drown on the sweetest Chardonnay you ever tasted. All in all, not a bad way to go.

Now my belly and my blood stream are filled California wine. Berkeley protesters/ yoga instructors won’t allow my stomach to be pumped because it is a desecration to the human body, so I can’t be shipped to great state of Cows, Corn and Soybeans.

I would then be buried in Cali, and this would be my epitaph:

"If you’re reading this, you’re in California. The produce here rulez!”

That’s right, I said it. Those who know me will take this comment with the seriousness it warrants. In my days as and Ohioan I wouldn’t have been caught dead with a vegetable in my mouth. They were all so bland, lifeless, and blatantly "good for you.” Fried sauerkraut? No thanks mom. Canned spinach doused with vinegar? Are you crazy grandma? Another plate of lettuce and Kraft Zesty Italian dressing? Is that the only salad in existence?

My fellow Midwesterners I stand here today a man changed. A man who has proudly ordered a plate of Roma Tomatoes topped with fresh basil leaves and goat cheese. I tell you that you can’t beat a good beet. I have seen the light, and it is a plate of Zucchini, baby Squash, Red Onion and Green Peppers. Although your conditioned minds won’t allow you to believe it, I will still tell you that Spinach does not grow in tin cans. It can be found fresh and it is wonderful. 

If you’re man enough, or woman enough; if you think you can handle it, come here and I will show you what I have learned about the vegetable. And after that, if your poor mind is not completely consumed, I will introduce you to what they call Roasted Red Pepper Hummus.