If I Was Rotting Corpse
Being a living, breathing, rotting corpse would present quite a few problems in my life.
Mostly, I think going out with people for dinner would probably be the biggest concern. Cause there I’d be, sitting at a table with a group of people all hungry and getting ready to eat something delectible that they’d ordered on purpose, while across the table would be me. Rotting and smelling and stuff.
Mind you, it’s not like my limbs would be falling off or I’d be a walking zombie or anything like that. I’d be the regular Pauly D you know and love except for the fact that I’d be a rotting corpse.
The other negative aspect, which would be the worst thing ever, would be that when I was in a room where someone either (a) passed gas, (b) left some old food in the corner of the room, or (c) killed a skunk while said skunk was already in mid-stench mode…well, everyone would think it was me. No more “whoever smelt it dealt it” stuff. It’d be more like, “something smells, it must be that rotting corpse of a Pauly D.”
That would probably make me sad. Maybe even cry.
And if there’s anything worse than a rotting corpse it’s a crying rotting corpse. I don’t know why for sure, but I just know that if I had to choose between a rotting corpse or a crying rotting corpse, I would always go with the rotting corpse (sans crying) because I think, deep down, I don’t want to have to cheer up a crying rotting corpse.
I mean, I have a hard enough time getting normal, non-rotting corpses to stop crying, so you get me when I say that the crying rotting corpse would just be way too much to handle.