It is said that late French President Francois Mitterand's "last supper" was a tiny bird, drowned in cognac and consumed whole. It was a somber affair, Mitterand having been diagnosed with cancer and only eight days from death. A small group joined him as they ate in silence with hoods over their heads, meditating on the death of such a fragile and innocent creature, surly pondering their own mortality as well. Lest you think him completely bat-guano crazy, it is a French tradition, though fraught with paradox.

The ortolan is a beautiful, gold-breasted migratory bird from Africa that travels to France, where it is considered the soul of the country. It is also endangered and illegal to eat. Quite a statement for the leader of a country to break the law by eating its soul, but what a way to go.

In the same vein, I would like my last meal to have equal gravitas. The problem, as you may have already guessed, is that I have no political clout, no foreknowledge of my impending doom and no taste for American Bald Eagle. Plus, I don't have the savoir fare for mopey French theatrics.

So, I have devised a meal that takes into account my relative non-existence on the world-scope and creates an interesting American twist while defining my exact departure date to the realm beyond: Death by Chocolate.

Theobromine is an alkaloid found in chocolate which can be poisonous in large amounts. Humans metabolize theobromine at a fairly high rate, but many animals do not. Only one ounce of baker's chocolate would be enough to bring about symptoms in a 45 pound dog. Signs of theobromine poisoning are nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and increased urination. These can progress to cardiac arrhythmias, epileptic seizures, internal bleeding, heart attacks, and eventually death.

The amount of chocolate to bring about death in a human has been estimated at 22 pounds. I'm not saying its going to be easy, but mine will be a notable death, highly discussed after dinner at Bennigan's restaurants across the world.

I will leave my motivations a mystery, to be guessed at by biographers and historians. Was it suicide? Was it gluttony? Or was it something more sublime, perhaps a grand statement about the over-indulgence of developed nations?

The French may shake their heads at my foolish voraciousness and literalism, but it is my secret hope that they will see the genius behind the madness and elevate mine to the top tiers of the their beloved American names: Jerry Lewis, Mickey Rourke and Scott Wilkins.

Learn more about this author, Scott Wilkins.
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