Photo courtesy of Cyanide and Happiness Comics

By JASON SINGER, Staff Columnist

What happens when we die?

A question that has been plaguing mankind since the dawn of time, now answered. Some of you may be expecting some heartfelt story about a near-death experience where I was slipping away towards a light at the end of some long and drawn out cliché ridden tunnel.

Sorry to disappoint you. If you are looking for clichés, read Cinderella.

Today, I can say with a 100% certainty what happens when we die, because just last week I experienced the process first hand.

He was pronounced dead at 5:01 p.m. on Thursday evening. And by 5:02 the process was already in full swing. My grandfather passed away last week due to terminal lung cancer. He is one of the only known cases to have survived so long with such high levels of cancer cells in his bloodstream.

But those who die are fortunate not to see what happens afterward. By 5:02 p.m. on Thursday, the girlfriend had already left the hospital, wiped out the family heirlooms and jewelry, and went straight to the local diamond cartels to cash in on death. Then other family or friends crawled out of the woodwork to see what was owed to them.

This weekend was worse than any Hell I could ever be condemned to. I have witnessed families be torn apart by death because their selfishness and greed overrule the grief and loss of their loved ones. The living swoops in like vultures and pick at anything or everything in their wake leaving a trail of blood and scraps of material goods.

So I ask again: What happens when we die?

People come to pick at our carcass, that’s what happens when we die. At the end of the day the events of the past week have just confirmed what my Darwinian-self had already suspected: Humans have evolved from mammals into parasites.

I wish I had some story to conclude with that would make everyone feel better. Like lightning came down from the sky or a great wave washed away all the bad people. The one take away that came out of these events is that I have lost all patience for fake people. Why pretend to like someone you don’t? Why force yourself to sooth others who don’t deserve soothing?

I’d like to believe that people’s behavior this weekend was a result from bath salts or some other experimental drug gone horribly wrong. Like some nuclear plant in Palm Beach, Florida malfunctioned making everyone’s hearts just as ugly as their Botox-injected faces. If there is an afterlife, then maybe I can take solace in the fact that one day some of these people may find themselves sharing a cramped cell with Chris Brown and Bjork, so they get an eternity of bad music and bad tempers.

On the last day I was in Florida I found myself in my Grandpa’s room watching a bunch of strangers going around claiming things, missing him dearly, and wondering where the hell Casey Anthony was when you desperately needed her to get rid of some unwanted house guests.