There was a story in the newspaper about a man who, while sitting in a boat, yawned — and a fish jumped from the water into his open mouth. He choked to death.

I find this to be a bummer on two levels. First, I hate eating fish, those slimy, smelly, disgusting things. I see fish lying in ice chips behind glass at the grocery store and I say to them, "Here's a news bulletin. You I'm not eating." I walk on by and proceed to the real meat.

Secondly, this is the worst possible way to eat fish, even if you do like eating fish. You have no control over the process. The fish is dictating to you that you're eating it. It's saying, "So you want to eat fish, you bastard? Here I am." And, as a special added bonus to this wonderful experience, you wind up dead.

I suppose there are worse ways to die, though.

For example, I wouldn't want to die wearing shorts at an amusement park on an extremely hot, humid day. It'd be awful to lurch around, mortally ill, at the amusement park with my shorts climbing up my thighs, the smell of cotton candy and grilled sausages nauseating me, and eventually toppling onto a tattooed biker, who heaves me off in revulsion. Then have to lie in melted, off-brand ice-cream until I die, right on the midway.

I don't want to go like Elvis. To be found lying dead next to the toilet, pants around my ankles, wallowing in feces and God knows what else, with all kinds of illicit narcotics in the medicine cabinet. That's not the glamorous final image I want to present. Or what if I'm flirting with an attractive woman at a bar or party and then start choking on my own vomit? You know she's not going to remember my charm and wit; she's only going to remember me choking on my own vomit. People tend to focus on the negative.

I don't want to die dancing, either, because I heard that when people die while dancing their butts continue to swivel minutes after they expire. Tragedy followed by tittering at the discotheque! I also didn't particularly enjoy the way Robert Shaw died in Jaws, kicking fruitlessly at a shark's head, then slipping into his mouth and being crunched down on like a pickle. I'd prefer not to be bitten by an alligator, either. Or, in another spin on animal participation, die alone in an efficiency apartment and then have my poodle eat me.

In the book How We Die, I read about how after one guy died he arched his back and let out an ear-splitting howl. I'll go quietly, if you don't mind. If I have to say something, I'd like it to be somewhat sophisticated and not a bark from hell. Like, "So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye" (The Sound of Music). Or something flip: "So long, screwy. See you in St. Looey." Or the dignified: "Well, it appears that I'm heading for the last round-up, and they're ringing down the final curtain. At this opportunity I'd like to thank all of you, and wish you the very best of luck in your endeavors." Then I'd go.

The best way, though, would be to just have everything stop. Here is my ultimate death scenario:

I'd be fabulously wealthy, mostly from the money given to me by my son, All-Star Cleveland Indians outfielder Eric Broder Jr., who during my lifetime never gave me any lip, drove me around and bought me my own loge at Jacobs Field.

One day I'd be home watching a great Dick Van Dyke Show episode, eating buttered popcorn, laughing at Rob Petrie Å  then that'd be it. I'd just nod off. No pain, no muss, no fuss, no barking like a dog or honking like a goose. No going to the bathroom!

I'd be grinning and giving the thumbs-up. And they could bury me that way.

This a summer rerun. (Eric is alive, but he's felt better.) It first appeared July 24, 1996.

erictbroder@yahoo.com; ericbroder.com

ASK MURRAY

The greatest Clevelanders of all time and why. Go.

My first choices are developers O.P. and M.J. Van Sweringen. Their manic activity took place between 1900 and 1930, and the centerpiece of their psychedelic-like vision was the creation of Shaker Heights. Shaker Boulevard and Van Aken were planned as spokes in a wonderland that provided convenient rail transportation to downtown Cleveland.

The Rockefeller family built Standard Oil, a major presence here until they hit oil in Alaska in the 1970s and were bought by BP. This era spawned the Union Club and country clubs that still flourish.

A high-energy period was kicked off by the euphoria that came with victory in World War II in 1945. Forest City was a lumber business that switched to real estate in that period and became world-class developers. Sam Miller and the Ratner family have to be on the list.

In 1947 Bill Veeck bought the Indians and turned the town on its ass. His baseball savvy was top-shelf, and we won the World Series in '48. He was out on the town and was a magnet for people of action. Veeck belongs on the list, along with Bob Feller.

The place to be in those days was the Theatrical Grill. Lunch attracted lawyers, political heavies and the mob. At night, the best jazz anywhere was on stage, attracting the high rollers and cool people of all societal tributaries.

Morris "Mushy" Wexler, the owner, was Cleveland's answer to Bugsy Siegel, a prohibition survivor who morphed into respectability.

The rise of FM radio and anti-Vietnam fever combined to create a scene that included coffee break concerts and the groovy WMMS Monday nights that took place at Hank LoConti's Agora — he's on the list. Belkin Production was there too — add Jules and Mike Belkin to the list. And Jane Scott was everywhere.

From politics, I'd choose Carl Stokes, the charismatic first black mayor, and Lou Stokes, the congressman, more steady but right there. Sen. Howard Metzenbaum goes on there too, a strong consistent liberal voice.

You can go back as far as you want and LeBron James still towers over most. Put a gold star by his name.

Finally, Peter B. Lewis. He took a modest insurance company, made it into a major national presence, but kept headquarters here. And Mr. Lewis advocates legalizing marijuana, so I'd love to smoke a bowl with him, perhaps on his yacht.

murray@freetimes.com