Give my body to David Lynch. He'll scoop out all my organs. Fill all my cavaties with cheese and lunchmeat. Affix me to a wide canvas. After swabbing my body with thick globules of dark paint, he'll bring in the ants. Determined diminutive muther truckers will excavate the nummy treats from my shell. Weeks later Mr. Lynch's newest masterpiece will hang in some trendy Soho galery.

Send my body to the Middle East. They can dress me up in an evil Uncle Sam outfit. Huge crowd taking their turns flogging my body with sticks, broken cinder blocks, and whatever other debris is hanging about. They could all spit and piss on it before setting it ablaze. The congregation of yankee haters dance with jubilation around my searing body. Crescendo of joyful anger chants.

Sink my body into a cube of polyurethane. After it gels, begin slicing the package with a high powered diamond blade into wafer thin sheets. Sell the spanklin corpse slides on Ebay. Be charitable and send a few sheets to inner city grade schools.

Turn my body into an animatronic cyborg. Install me in amusment parks around the country. Program me to greet park goers as they enter the grand gates. Have me lurch at people on the spooky log ride. Kids could plunk quarters into my forehead coin slot and I would geuss their weight. Demanding hugs for each one I get right.

Stick copious amounts of pyrotechnics up my rectum. Hold the lighting ceremony on Coney Island. Drunks and stoners cheer and hoot as roman candle blasts shoot from my dead asshole.

Or else just toss my body in some dumpster in China Town.