"Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality." - King Lear when Gloucester asks to kiss his hand.
When Jeremy Bentham died he was stuffed and displayed in the British Museum. When one of Beckett's sorry characters died, his ashes were strewn on the beer soaked floor of a noisy Dublin bar, after good faith efforts to flush them down the toilet failed. Of course you can always be embalmed and buried, or cryogenically frozen. The poor in India, I guess, are thrown into the Ganges and eaten by turtles. Eskimos, before global warming, left their dying behind on the ice flow. For your Lasting Legacy, when your Journey from Success to Significance peters out in senility and farce, how would you like your remains disposed of? It's the Dumpster for me. Toss the body bag in with my books. Toast me with Thunderbird, "Bird is the word!" and follow the Garbage Truck with a brass band, or at least one bum clanging two ash can lids together and singing out, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust!"
Digoenes found sorting bones in a Dumpster was asked, by a nobleman, "What are you doing, crazy old man?" Replied the philosopher, "I am trying to tell which are your father's and which are mine."