When I think of human events taking place after my death, the emotion that accompanies this thought is primarily annoyance. It's kind of a burning sensation in the face, one of those profoundly infantile reactions. Deep down, I don't really see the point of history continuing to unfold if I'm not here to witness it or at least hear about it or be given the opportunity to hear about it or read about it and politely decline because I'm busy just then. It might sound a little self-centered, but I'd prefer it if all other human beings on earth died within thirty seconds or so of my death. Not so much died as suddenly and painlessly vanished, in an instant, so that nothing else could happen in my absence. I'd like to take human history to oblivion with me when I go. Is that selfish? The planet can stay, it was here long before we were after all. Who cares about an empty, polluted planet anyway, especially with all those oily machines sitting around? If all the people disappeared in an instant what's left is pretty much an eyesore, like a living room the moment the last drunken guest stumbles out. Overflowing ashtrays, sticky linoleum, plugged-up toilets, half-empty bottles set just anywhere people damn well please thank you very much. The earth before man was probably a beautiful and fascinating place, if your tastes run to pitiless violent death and random geological calamity. I'm sure the woolly mammoth would tell you how lovely the earth is, from inside the glacier where he is frozen, or the tar pit in which he writhed in panic and became mired, luckily perishing before he could be ripped to pieces by the approaching saber-toothed tigers. Hell yeah, he'd say in the voice of the late John Belushi, this planet is simply glorious. Now excuse me while I reassume my grisly attitude of permanent terror. People who speak of the beauty of the natural world are at best conjuring a strangely partial vision. There are some nice sunsets but what about vultures and other carrion-eating birds? The only people who think of vultures as beautiful are the people who've bizarrely decided to spend their careers studying them. These people are most likely in the grip of dark and troubling fetishes, compelled by something twisted in their psyches to study the habits of hideous scavengers who feed on putrefying flesh, without knowing quite why they're drawn to such creatures and pretty much afraid to find out, hence the rampant alcoholism in that branch of ornithology. Every species has a human fanclub somewhere because of the human mind's unique capacity for perversity. I wouldn't be surprised if these birds find each other repugnant, the turkey buzzards probably look at the black vultures and think you ugly disgusting dirtbags.