I’ve gone to a lot of funerals recently. In each case, the deceased just laid there, unsmiling, conveying the impression there were places they’d much rather be. Not me. When I leave the scene, I’d like to create the impression I’m waiting to go on a trip. I just don’t know where. Also, one of my goals has always been to leave a good-looking, happy corpse. That’s why I plan on a few pre-embalmed trips to a tanning salon, where they can give me a healthy glow. I’ll also leave instructions for the mortician to ratchet my mouth open, revealing recently bleached teeth I spent a lifetime maintaining.
The right music selection can also liven up a downer funeral. To placate my wife, they can play “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art.” But I want the highlight to be “Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport.” The song, a hit way back in 1963, includes the memorable lyrics: Tan me hide when I’m dead, Fred, tan me hide when I’m dead. So we tanned his hide when he died Clyde, and that’s I hanging on the shed.
After they close the lid, it will be time for the procession to the cemetery. This is where a few so-called friends might attempt to “bug out” and leave me with a shorter parade than I deserve. To guard against this, I’ll have them chain everyone’s bumpers together so they can’t escape.
Reputation is important, and I’d like to change mine. That’s why I plan to hire mourners. Not just any mourners, but women; actually exotic dancers. They will be instructed to sob inconsolably as my casket is lifted into the hearse. As the hearse inches forward, they’ll pave the way with pastel carnations they made from Kleenex, which by the way, is a lost art, but maybe we can get it going again. At any rate, friends and relatives will mutter to themselves, “Hey, who are those women?” and “What are they doing at Jerry’s funeral?” Plus, what’s my wife going to do? Kill me?
Through payoffs and coercion, we’ll put together a procession so long it will appear as if people adored me. But before heading to the cemetery, our cadaver-carrying caravan will encircle an entire city block, entrapping all the unlucky drivers caught inside. Imagine their conversations:
DRIVER (frustrated): Maude, hasn’t that green Buick already passed us by? Maude, wake up!
MAUDE (cannot, she died three days ago)
This is how I plan to get even, without actually stabbing them, with idiot-drivers that go 55 in the fast lane, thus costing me valuable seconds on my way to Bob Evans.
There are only a few times during your life when you get to piss everyone off and nobody can do anything about it. One is when you’re a baby and shit your diapers and they have to clean you up. Two is when you get married and you’re first in line at the buffet and everyone else has to wait. And three is when you die.
Enjoy it when you can.