tax dollars paid for. I should get to see at least one, or part of one, how ever much I paid for. I should get to autograph my little part. Hell, I should be able to lease out my little square inch of casket to an advertiser and get an actual return on my tax investment. And if I had an advertiser behind me, you know those caskets would get on TV, all branded and tattooed like NASCAR shells… they could put wheels on them, send them shooting down the ship ramp like pine car derby racers? That would get beaucoup Neilsens. And you find me one soldier—one—that wouldn’t love their final send off being shot down the ramp in the number three casket, sponsored by GM Goodwrench and Wrangler Jeans.
    Obviously everyone would want the number three casket, so you’d have to pick a couple alternates, have your favorite three drivers on your dog tags instead of your favorite three religions or however they do it now. PFC Jim Smith; #8675309; Ernhart (Sr.), Petty, Johnson. I remember seeing some car that was all orange and swaddled in the Tide detergent logo, and I thought man, that’s the stupidest looking car I’ve ever seen, but that would make one boss casket paint job. Oh, shit, you know what I’d like? Twinkies. They’re the right shape, see. You and your buddy both buy it from the same IED, you could work up a two-pack together. You’d both have to be white to make the whole creme filling thing work, but I think the brothers could probably get it together as Choco-Diles or something. Ho-hos? King Dons?
    It’s weird how most of those kinds of shrink-wrapped cakes you get are chocolate on the outside and white on the inside, but most of the interracial