I don't want to die in this grain silo!

(A continuation of a theme of stylisitic ripoffs of an Onion column)

I always felt I was going to die young. I can't explain why. It's just a feeling I've had as long as I can remember. It never really scared me. It's always just been an uneasy acceptance. But I'll admit it. Now that I'm staring death straight in the eyes, I'm scared. I want to live! I don't want to die in this grain silo!

What an ignoble way to go. Sitting on top of a mountain of grain at the very top of a silo. I can't even stand up. I wonder who will discover my body and what they'll say. Someday someone's going to need some grain and they'll find my corpse. Hopefully I will have anticipated the moment of death so I can have a look of brave defiance on my face. What could he say? He'll probably just take off his hat, lower his head, and wonder what kind of God would allow a father in the prime of his life to get trapped in a grain silo.

I've tried eating my way out, but it's terrible. Have you ever eaten a silo full of grain? Without so much as a drop of water? Didn't think so. I can't even eat a bowl of dry Cheerios. I need a glass of milk, orange juice, something. I don't have any of that. It's just me and a steel cylinder filled with grain.

I wanted to die an important and honorable death. Sacrificing myself to knock some schoolchildren out of the way of a speeding train. Taking a bullet for a Supreme Court justice. They would have given me a plaque. A special ceremony. What do I get for being trapped in a grain silo? A fifteen second story on the eleven o'clock news? I don't want news of my death to be prefaced by the phrase "An odd story tonight." And I certainly don't want it to end with "Investigators are baffled."

I've tried everything. I tried swimming to the bottom. I couldn't even get my whole body undergrain. You'd be surprised how compact a silo full of grain is.

They write poems about people who fight valiantly against diseases at a young age. They write epics about people who do battle against powerful foes and great armies. What do they write about people who get trapped in grain silos? Articles in the "Lighter Side of the News" section.

I'd like to dictate my final will and testament. I hereby give all my worldy possessions to my son under the condition he doesn't share them with my bitch ex-wife Sandy. My final wish is that I be cremated and that my ashes be returned to the grain wilo in which I drew my last breath. Then, I would like to be baked into a loaf of bread and fed to Sandy unsuspectingly. She is only to be told after she has finished the bread.

Goodbye, cruel world! My God, why have you who created me just thirty years ago sentenced me to my death in this tall, wheaty tomb? Have I displeased you? I went to confession, asked for forgiveness. And what do I get in return? Death in the company of grain!

Death is not far away so I'll close now. I have one final wish. Remember me not as I died but as I lived. Outside of a grain silo.