In the early '70s, my uncle would celebrate the end of each work day by drinking a cold one. He would go out to his driveway, drop the tailgate, sit in the shade, and drink a beer.
One day, the engine from a passing 727 tumbled from the sky and crushed him to death.
Of course, it was ruled as yet another senseless alcohol-related death.
I would prefer to die in peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather, not screaming in terror like his passengers.