Y'know, after I'm dead, I don't really care what happens to me. I'm gone, you know. My brain won't be there to pass judgement on what the living do with me, or whether they give a damn at all; it won't matter to me one bit. While I'm alive I can at least tell my loved ones to, as Woody Allen once put it, "cast my remains to the four winds... and get back the deposit on the urn."
Such was not the case with Barry Whittaker, however. Upon learning that he had terminal cancer in 1999, he decided to get some large tattoos. And then he instructed his son Carl that he would like the tattoos to be saved after his death.
And the son, out of respect, did exactly that. He found a taxidermist who was willing to remove the tats, and a tanning company that was willing to tan the skin. And so, there are dad's remains, framed and typically hung up in the living room.