Bill's Bulletin Board
By Bill Rea

So, have you got anything special planned for Nov. 18, 2031? That's going to be a Tuesday.

Well, according to a Web site I recently stumbled across, it's going to be a big day for me. That's the day I'm going to die.

What useful stuff will they think of next to put on the Internet?

As I stated, I stumbled across this site, and my curiosity got the better of me.

The site asked for my date of birth, gender, whether or not I smoke (I quit some years ago) and my body mass index, which is a calculation based on one's height and weight. They also asked about my mode, which upon investigation, I learned they wanted me to place myself into one of four classes; normal, pessimistic, optimistic and sadistic. I chose normal, although I guess many of you could have a spirited debate over that one.

I typed in all the requested information, and learned that I'm due to encounter a bucket with my name on it

there for the kicking one week to the day after Remembrance Day in the aforementioned year. That means my number is due to come up 25 years from this coming Saturday.

And before anyone asks, I feel fine.

This Web site also tells me how many more seconds I've got. I guess I could calculate the time of day that I'm slated to croak, but I haven't bothered yet. But since it's going to be a Tuesday (the day I have to put the paper together), it had better be late in the day. My employers will stand for production being delayed for only so long.

One has to wonder what would have inspired a supposedly intelligent person to create a Web site like this. I think it's one of those classic cases of a person who has too much time on his or her hands.

My investigation of this site led me to a couple of links, some with supposedly interesting details on how certain famous people met their ends. It also included pictures of some of these people's graves, and even one picture I stumbled upon of Jackie Coogan (Uncle Fester) lying in his casket.

I consider myself a richer man for having found all this stuff.

I don't know how healthy a Web site like this really is. I could see people typing in their information and getting really upset at having the day of their departure from this life set out in front of them. It's all predicated, I guess, on whether or not you believe it.

In the first place, it's entirely possible that I'll be hit by a truck and killed tomorrow. I do a lot of driving in the course of my work; a lot more than most of you. So the chances of me dying in some traffic mishap is probably a lot higher than for a person who seldom gets into a car.

There are plenty of other accidental or unnatural ways for a person to meet with eternity. Considering the tone of some of the emails I received in the final days of the election campaign, I suspect there are a few people out there who wouldn't be opposed to hurrying things along a bit.

And then one's health history has to come into play.

I recently had my annual physical (which is why I knew what number to type in for my body mass index), and the doctor seemed reasonably pleased with what he saw. He did

admonish me for carting around a bit too much blubber for my height, and I promised to do all I could to grow a few more inches.

Family history evidently plays some role in determining how long a person will live, although I don't think it offers any guarantees. From what I know about my family tree, there's not a lot of longevity there. Off the top of my head, I can think of just two blood relatives who made it to their 80th birthdays, and one of them, and aunt, is still going strong.

There's also a bit of a history of heart problems. My father was diagnosed with such trouble when he was about my age (actually a bit younger), but over the years, we have had cause to wonder if that assessment might have been in error. His heart had little to do with his death, although his father died rather young (66) of a heart attack.

With that in mind, my doctor wants me to undergo a stress test. In fact his staff booked me for an appointment for Monday this week (two days ago). I called the hospital and informed them that, "I'm a newspaper editor, and you've booked me for a stress test on election day. I don't think that's very appropriate."

The lady at the other end of the phone giggled a bit, and made the necessary adjustment to my appointment.

What this all boils down to is I don't believe that

some silly Web site can tell me when I'm due to die, although this calculation (if such a determination was actually calculated), schedules me to depart at the age of 73, which I guess isn't too bad. That's a little young by today's standards, and certainly doesn't take into account medical advances that are coming, or the possibility that I might succeed in growing those extra couple of inches to get my body mass index down. I bounced the idea off my doctor, and he said he wouldn't feel comfortable prescribing sessions on the rack.

I frankly don't think anyone should believe it. In fact, and after some reflection, I decided not to reveal the address of this Web site here, simply because I don't want to be responsible for someone getting curious like me and then getting overly upset by what they find. Anyone who really wants to know where it is will be able to find it.

I'm going to go one of these days, and I'll find out which one for sure in due course. Besides, my wife has already told me she's going to have a party for me on my 90th birthday, and I've been married long enough to know better than to mess up her plans.

But if you come upon my death notice some time late in November 2031, I guess there will be some Web master somewhere saying, "Told you so!"