My last post, Death Becomes Me, was a bummer, man. Necessary, I felt, but a large bummer. So, to lighten and brighten things up around here, I'm going to tell you all about my funeral plans. Isn't that great?
First of all, there isn't going to be one. There is no way in hell (oops) I'm going to play the funeral home scam. Like caskets (the PC name for coffins) that are guaranteed to not leak for twenty-five years. Give me a fucking break. Try to imagine Martha, in her seventies or eighties, forgoing bingo night to rent a backhoe, digging me up, and checking me out for leakage. Hell (oops), I leak now, so the whole exercise would be moot anyway.
Unless, that is, she's hard up for bingo money.
No, I'm opting for the cremation option. No suit and tie (neither of which I own anyway), no lipstick and mascara, and since I live in the Sonoran desert, I can take the heat.
What I would like, though, is an open-urn wake. You know, so all of my friend or two can get a last gander at me.
OVERHEARD AT THE WAKE:
"Why, he's the spitting image of himself! They did a lovely job."
"Hey lady, that's not an ashtray--well, actually it is an ashtray--but don't you be flickin' your ashes in it."
"I could swear that urn is leaking."
On second or third thought, maybe there should just be a cake. Yeah, a remembrance cake, that should do it . . .