Like many I have contemplated my own death. The actual way it goes down doesn’t so much matter to me. Whether its from horrible disease, car crash or random gang stabbing. The actual death doesn’t so much worry me.
After reading Huck Finn at I young age I got to thinking, if I were to attend my own funeral procession I would want it to be a mind blowing spectacle for both myself and the folks who showed up.
Funerals are too official, too gloomy, I am not saying I want one of those lame celebration of life type funerals where everyone wears whatever they want and goes wild drinking each other under the table while nudging each other and telling stories of my passing. No that’s not the way to do it at all.
I want to go out with pizazz.
Will there be Sarah MacLauchlan songs?
Fuck no. That is again far to gloomy. If there are tears shed, I want them to be tears of pure awe and amazement for the exuberant display brought forth to entertain one and all and send me off in fine style.
Keep the photo albums out of it for a little bit. I mean I am sure when we were going through the holiday snaps with you the first time you were bored enough, having to see them again when I’m fucking dead and you have to be polite about it, well yeah that’s just a waste of your time and mine. Even though I’m dead at this point I will still feel like your wasting time that could be spent doing something supreme.
Here’s how its going to go down. Show up at sunset alright. Perfect time of day, hung over or not you have no excuse not to show up. I mean shit its at sunset you have like a whole extra day to plan how to get there, from reading the obits to showing up.
Novelty ties are a must at my funeral, I am sorry but no exceptions can be made here. It is really the only wardrobe stipulation I am making, women can be exempt, but if you’re a man your rocking some kind of witty tie. I don’t care if you sling it over a t shirt, clip on, bow tie, bolo tie, who gives a fuck. Tie an electrical cord around your neck and make an ironical novelty tie. Id smile down on you for something like that.
Secondly I want to be burned, Even if I die in a really peaceful way and the body looks super lifelike and sweet, and I haven’t shit myself or rocking a huge boner. No matter how beautiful a corpse I make, which I know I will, just burn my ass.This is part of a greater plan.
Don’t get me wrong I still want a tombstone, Someplace you could come by maybe bury a little pinch of me in there, with a note that just says “gotcha!” for anyone brave enough to try and dig me up. The tombstone will be the staging area for my grand exit funeral.
Gather round my tombstone one and all.
As the sun is setting were going to roll out a whole bunch of pretty cool cars. Aston martin, Lamborghini, Maybe a classic Corvette, a nice Jag. Hopefully some of which I will have owned throughout my lifetime. The headlights are going to snap on all at once. The crowd will hush, clutching their breasts in excitement. Novelty ties flapping in the wind.
Car stereos are going to crank on all at once starting to very softly play February Stars by the Foo Fighters. There will be a grand show, with ballet dancers, carneys and cirque du soleil with a parade of elephants.
That is right folks, my funeral will bring together the sworn enemies cirque du soleil and animals. My death will allow them to see the error of their ways, and join forces in order to put on a show unlike any man has seen before. The kingdoms of both animal and French will meld together as one, forgetting the allegations of cruelty on both sides.
The ballet dancers will dance atop each car, the carnies will perform various stunts as an aside, and cirque du soleil will provide amazing acrobatics atop the elephants.
And this isn’t even the finale.
This show will boggle minds for generations. It will be the greatest five minutes of entertainment anyone has ever seen at a funeral.
No prayers, only shocking once in a lifetime spectacle.
This astonishing feat will continue until the buildup in the song, whereby this point my surviving spouse and or immediate family will want to avert their eyes for the display to follow.
When Grohl belts out the iconic, FEBRUARY STARS. Surprise! The ballet dancers are also strippers. At this point they will begin to strip and dance in a sexual manner around my tombstone.
As the women perform their manic sexualized dancing, the crowd can all turn their eyes to the sky as a gigantic flurry of fireworks begins to shoot off overhead.
I am talking fireworks that could shoot down a 747. I would like this funeral to be declared a national security threat from the finale fireworks.
Here is the tricky part. I know this has been done before however. I would like to be put into the fireworks. Yes that’s right. I want to be shot up into the sky overtop of all of my surviving friends and family. Showering you with ashes and light.
I realize this does not sound too appealing. The strippers may indeed get burned. I will set aside money for compensation.
Showering you in my essence would be both sexually satisfying from a dead mans perspective and a fulfillment of a promise to live on with each of you.
The car lights will fade out, the strippers will begin to dress, the elephants will parade back into their cages, with the carneys and cirque du soleil following to their respective cages.
The sun now fully down the attendees will hang around to marvel at what they have just seen.
My goal is to have at least one person utter “Best funeral ever”
That’s how I want to go out.
I realize ballet strippers, circus animals, carneys, exotic vehicles, ash fireworks, novelty ties and cirque du soleil will be hard to get, and enormously expensive. But to my friends and family, I am not yet dead, I have given you lots of warning, I think its reasonable to make this happen.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Post Uno
This is from a tumblr blog i found..a comedy troupe from london ontario.
Buffalo Chicken Sandwich.
It was a nice idea; let’s go out for a tantalizing dinner with some of the best people I know. We can sit around, break bread, enjoy some reasonably-priced food and have a few alcoholic beverages.
Or so I thought.
Friends, my preconceived notions of this meal being a harmless combination of tom-foolery and sustenance were shattered by the buffalo chicken sandwich.
Oh, the sandwich was good, nay, great. I’ve eaten some sandwiches in my time, and this one was just a notch above adequate. It was not to the stellar level where the restaurant could name it “The Carl Sagan of Buffalo chickens,” but it was just a quick bump above “eeehhh, this is OK, not the best but OK.”
Now that we have established the level of sandwich this was, I’m going to take you through the meal. I took a bite into this sandwich and was rewarded with some tangy, slightly spicy, boat load of runny chicken goo all over my face and tongue.
Needless to say, I was scalded. I braced myself for the second bite. I slowed down, reminding myself, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither should this sandwich be consumed hastily. Slow playing the sandwich, I ate at a leisurely pace and sat back. When the meal was through, I was fully satisfied and ready to pay whatever bill was to be thrust my way.
I went about my evening unaware of what was going on in my innards.
For within that sandwich was an organized force that would make any trained navy seal or marine shiver in its wake. There was an army amassing within me, and as I slept they continued to grow stronger and stronger.
For those of you who have seen war, this is my tour of duty.
_____________________________________________________________________
They built up their war machines, made their fudge fortress strong and disposed of the waste in his colon- waiting for the mass exodus that would erupt when he drew his first conscious breaths.
The Commander awoke and went about his early morning urination regiment, then began to feel the civil war within. Thinking quickly and acting quicker, he aborted the typical urination and went into damage control.
He then mentally pressed the big red button within his head: total lock down. Throwing himself on the porcelain evacuation chamber he purged the mini-Hiroshima that churned within.
The sandwich had mutated, becoming something both painful and awe inspiring. He was completely incapacitated while the sandwich launched its first strike, which was equivalent to an oompa loompa-suicide-bomber in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The whole of the Chocolate River flash flooded from the factory. Orange headed little bastards.
He was certain there were heavy casualties on both sides and made the decision to retreat and save invaluable magazines of ammunition. I literally mean magazines. This war could not be won without national geographic.
The sandwich had not yet shown its true destructive power.
Not 10 minutes after the first attack, reinforcements arrived. These boys had training. They used the spices from the exotic region of Buffalo; it was like a flamethrower brigade. He was losing the battle, demoralized and completely on fire. The fields of battle ran red; the fans tried to disperse the smell of the sandwich’s fallen warriors.
The fans droned on and on, completely helpless to drown out the sounds of battle. The conflict seemed to get worse, while the Commander prayed for a cold winter to slow the battle and turn the tide of war.
Exhausted and spent, each side returned to their bunkers. The sandwich began to recruit further numbers, preparing for a final blowout assault.
After checking the daily news, the Commander knew it was time. Turning to an old surplus of magazines, he set in for the long fight. History is told by the winners, and he was going to tell the story of this war, not the bloody sandwich.
Digging hand and nail into the sides of the porcelain evacuation chamber, the Commander bared down and bombed the enemy off the field. Sandwich casualties flowed like the River of the Dead from Greek mythology. The boatman had a busy day.
The noise was deafening and could be heard throughout the lands. Those uninvolved offered aid and sympathy. But the Commander assured the others, “The worst is over now.”
As the air rose over the Commander’s neck, he felt the relief he had hoped for. It was a chill, like snowflakes softly falling and cradling his wounds. The winter had come, blanketing the casualties of war in an otherworldly-veil. All were at peace. A monkey wrench had been thrown into the gears of the sandwich’s war machine.
A vast sigh of relief breathed throughout the lands. Man was safe against the foul oppressor sandwich, which was tasty to the lips, but when given praise and trust returned with a malicious assault rarely seen by man.
The Commander showered in tears, hoped to soothe the physical and emotional wounds brought on by the day’s fight. The water streamed down the battlefield like the tears from the Commander’s face. He was surrounded by sadness for all the day’s casualties and for what could have been, if only the Buffalo chicken sandwich joined forces with man.
Buffalo Chicken Sandwich.
It was a nice idea; let’s go out for a tantalizing dinner with some of the best people I know. We can sit around, break bread, enjoy some reasonably-priced food and have a few alcoholic beverages.
Or so I thought.
Friends, my preconceived notions of this meal being a harmless combination of tom-foolery and sustenance were shattered by the buffalo chicken sandwich.
Oh, the sandwich was good, nay, great. I’ve eaten some sandwiches in my time, and this one was just a notch above adequate. It was not to the stellar level where the restaurant could name it “The Carl Sagan of Buffalo chickens,” but it was just a quick bump above “eeehhh, this is OK, not the best but OK.”
Now that we have established the level of sandwich this was, I’m going to take you through the meal. I took a bite into this sandwich and was rewarded with some tangy, slightly spicy, boat load of runny chicken goo all over my face and tongue.
Needless to say, I was scalded. I braced myself for the second bite. I slowed down, reminding myself, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither should this sandwich be consumed hastily. Slow playing the sandwich, I ate at a leisurely pace and sat back. When the meal was through, I was fully satisfied and ready to pay whatever bill was to be thrust my way.
I went about my evening unaware of what was going on in my innards.
For within that sandwich was an organized force that would make any trained navy seal or marine shiver in its wake. There was an army amassing within me, and as I slept they continued to grow stronger and stronger.
For those of you who have seen war, this is my tour of duty.
_____________________________________________________________________
They built up their war machines, made their fudge fortress strong and disposed of the waste in his colon- waiting for the mass exodus that would erupt when he drew his first conscious breaths.
The Commander awoke and went about his early morning urination regiment, then began to feel the civil war within. Thinking quickly and acting quicker, he aborted the typical urination and went into damage control.
He then mentally pressed the big red button within his head: total lock down. Throwing himself on the porcelain evacuation chamber he purged the mini-Hiroshima that churned within.
The sandwich had mutated, becoming something both painful and awe inspiring. He was completely incapacitated while the sandwich launched its first strike, which was equivalent to an oompa loompa-suicide-bomber in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The whole of the Chocolate River flash flooded from the factory. Orange headed little bastards.
He was certain there were heavy casualties on both sides and made the decision to retreat and save invaluable magazines of ammunition. I literally mean magazines. This war could not be won without national geographic.
The sandwich had not yet shown its true destructive power.
Not 10 minutes after the first attack, reinforcements arrived. These boys had training. They used the spices from the exotic region of Buffalo; it was like a flamethrower brigade. He was losing the battle, demoralized and completely on fire. The fields of battle ran red; the fans tried to disperse the smell of the sandwich’s fallen warriors.
The fans droned on and on, completely helpless to drown out the sounds of battle. The conflict seemed to get worse, while the Commander prayed for a cold winter to slow the battle and turn the tide of war.
Exhausted and spent, each side returned to their bunkers. The sandwich began to recruit further numbers, preparing for a final blowout assault.
After checking the daily news, the Commander knew it was time. Turning to an old surplus of magazines, he set in for the long fight. History is told by the winners, and he was going to tell the story of this war, not the bloody sandwich.
Digging hand and nail into the sides of the porcelain evacuation chamber, the Commander bared down and bombed the enemy off the field. Sandwich casualties flowed like the River of the Dead from Greek mythology. The boatman had a busy day.
The noise was deafening and could be heard throughout the lands. Those uninvolved offered aid and sympathy. But the Commander assured the others, “The worst is over now.”
As the air rose over the Commander’s neck, he felt the relief he had hoped for. It was a chill, like snowflakes softly falling and cradling his wounds. The winter had come, blanketing the casualties of war in an otherworldly-veil. All were at peace. A monkey wrench had been thrown into the gears of the sandwich’s war machine.
A vast sigh of relief breathed throughout the lands. Man was safe against the foul oppressor sandwich, which was tasty to the lips, but when given praise and trust returned with a malicious assault rarely seen by man.
The Commander showered in tears, hoped to soothe the physical and emotional wounds brought on by the day’s fight. The water streamed down the battlefield like the tears from the Commander’s face. He was surrounded by sadness for all the day’s casualties and for what could have been, if only the Buffalo chicken sandwich joined forces with man.
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