My funeral
Dearests. Went to a funeral this morning, which has put me in a morbid frame of mind. Just in case I never get my act together enough to write a will or any of that jazz, I have posted below my thoughts on what kind of services I would like when I leave this mortal coil. Take heed.
1. My wake. I want to be propped up in the corner, in a nice outfit (something age appropriate, please). I want a glass of wine in front of me and I want a cigarette between my fingers. In fact, appoint someone to fit me with a smoke, light it, and replace it when it burns out. Don’t worry about ashes on the outfit — more on that later. We’ll have to do some leg work on the location — with the smoking ban due to take effect in NJ in about 90 days, there will be hurdles to jump.
2. My funeral service. Many of you should speak lovingly of me. Many of you should break down halfway through your remarks. Some of you should need to be revived with smelling salts. At least two of you — preferably men, preferably handsome, should fall to your knees and bemoan the fact that you didn’t take me away from it all when you could. Please have someone proofread your remarks. Please feel free to steal quotes from erudite, prominent and witty personages and credit them to me. Please do not put up any pictures of me in the funeral home that make me look fat or show that horrible perm I thought was a good idea in high school. Similarly, no prom photos, please.
3. My final commitment to this earth. Please ensure that I am cremated (hence no need to worry about the ashes from the wake — let them fall where they may), place me in some cool-looking urn thing (spend some money, people — I only die once!), and arrange to have my remains placed on the bar of my favorite watering hole of the time. Or shoot me into space. Whatever.
4. Subsequent celebrations. Who am I to tell you all what to do, but it would be really nice if my nearest and dearest gathered at least once a year to miss me en masse. Also, feel free to name your kids after me. Unless they are ugly. Or ornery. Also, feel free to drunk dial my exes and pretend you are me, haunting their asses. Especially the Jackass. Unless he’s wised up and figured out he’s gay — in which case, call him up, tell him I’m proud of him, and ask him what took him so damn long.
Thank you.