The recent passing of The Crocodile Hunter disturbs me. Not just because I now have to worry about stingray barbs next time I go snorkeling, but because of the poetic nature of his demise. His career was dedicated to teaching that animals are safe if you respect them; his death, as the media has spent the last few days ignoring Iraq to report, came in spite of his life's work. If he had died in his sleep or in a car accident, the media would have paid homage and moved on; but it's precisely because his death is so ironic that they're giving it so much attention.

This is what disturbs me most: with the modicum of fame I possess, death by car accident would go unnoticed by the world. But as the guy who runs PoopReport, who has written a book about poop, who is beginning to be recognized as an "expert" on the subject, an ironic death would earn me my fifteen minutes of fame (well, at least on the local news and probably as a link on Fark) in the worst possible way.

Rather than cower in my home, though, I'm going to meet Fate head on. Thus I invite you all to envision the most ironic means by which I might be squirted out of the mortal realm. Your entry can be an essay, or a poem, or even a drawing (remember ArtPad [1]?) -- whichever way you think best conveys the most deliciously poetic way for me, the poop guy, to die. Put your entry in the comments below. The best one will win a copy of the new Journal of Ass Production! [2]

This contest has closed. See the winning entry here! [3]