Shovel in the ground, foot on the shovel.

Push the shovel into the ground. Dig.

You'll have to dig for a while if you're doing the work all by yourself, but if you've got tens of millions of people to help you, it won't take 10 seconds to dig up Trayvon Martin.

Use a crowbar on the coffin. Craaaaack!

There he is. There's our boy, head lolling crazily on the neck, lips shriveled back from the teeth. He smells a little, but what the hell, the kid's dead.

Pick him up. Drag him out of the graveyard, feet loose and dragging the ground, each one facing to the side, arms swinging, head rolling around and around.

There. You got him.

Stand behind him with your hands under his armpits. Bounce him up and down. Look, he's dancing! Get that on YouTube; maybe put some rap music behind it.

Take Trayvon Martin's corpse home with you. Pull the pants down around his ankles and sit him on the toilet. Funny stuff!

Sit him up on your favorite chair. Stick a blunt in his mouth. Put a 40 of malt liquor in his hard, chilly hand. Look, it's Snopp Doggy Dead! Hi-larious! Put a hoodie on him. Put a backward White Sox cap on his head. Make him look gangsta.

Hang a sign around his neck. "Stand Your Ground," the sign reads.

Take his dead body to a tea party rally. Take it to an NRA rally.

Look at his corpse, loose-jointed, stinky, lolling and rolling, legs like boiled spaghetti. Stick your fingers in the sides of his slack, dead mouth, and pull back until he's grinning.

Put your hand under his jaw. Hold him around the waist with your other arm.

Move his jaw while you talk, like you're a ventriloquist. You can make him say anything you want. Put the video up on Facebook.

Tie him to the fence in your front yard. Make it look like he's standing up, like he's coming for you. Get your gun.

Take a combat shooter's stance. Both hands on the gun, arms bent just a tad at the elbows. Say something terse and strong to him.

"Don't make me shoot you, son."

Shoot Trayvon's corpse. Boom! Up under the heart. Blast! In the belly.

He won't bleed much. He's already been drained of every drop by amateurs and by professionals.

Put Trayvon's corpse in your car. Drive it to church. Place his body on the altar. Put the cross of Jesus on his chest, a nice wooden crucifix, heavy with the bloody fruit of forgiveness.

Jump up and down on the cross, on Trayvon's body, until you feel the crucifix break under your feet, until you feel the boy's dead ribs break.

Then kneel next to that busted, stomped, bloody, smelly rag and bone of a child.

Kiss him. Kiss him on the cheek. Like you'd kiss our own boy.

Wake him from the nightmare.

You can't, can you?

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists visit www.creators.com