Monday, April 30, 2012

Stupidest Crap ever Spoken By Me and My Friends: Part 13

GUY AT 'SAUCEBOX': I like your tattoo, what is it?
KELLY: It's the symbol for Liberty.  I'm a Libertarian.
GUY: Oh, cool!  I'm a Gemini.

MAX: That girl's hot.  I'm gonna ask her out.
ALEX: Dude, she's way out of your league.  It's like she's Babe Ruth and you're a tee-ball coach with questionable pictures on your hard drive.

GINA: When I die, make sure I don't get buried in a long skirt because they're super hard to pee in and I just KNOW the afterlife has a bar.

ME: Do you like my dress?
MAX: Yeah. You look like "Walk of Shame" Barbie.

ME: "Drinking the Kool'Aid" is a jacked up phrase to use when talking about team spirit.  Don't people realize it's a reference about mass genocide?
ALEX: Yeah, next thing you know Chase Bank will be advertising a "Holocaust of Savings!"

JESS: They need a channel called The Home Browsing Network.  You know, just show the stuff but don't show the number to call.

GINA: The sequel is never as good as the original.
ALEX: Except for World War II.  It totally kicked World War I's ass.

ME: Just deal with this project one step at a time.  You know that old saying about how to eat an elephant?
MAX: How?
ME: One bite at a time.
MAX: Oh, like that thing about how to dispose of a dead hooker?
ME: . . .
MAX: Cut her up with a chainsaw and bury the parts separately.
ME: . . .
MAX: Not the same thing?

KELLY: Were you able to water my plants while I was gone?
KELLY: Don't you still have my keys?
NEIGHBOR: Yeah, I stopped by your house but I couldn't get in.
KELLY: What do you mean you couldn't get in?
NEIGHBOR: Well, I knocked, but no one answered the door.
KELLY: But. . .you had my keys.
NEIGHBOR: Yeah.  Do you want them back?

ME: Guys like Santorum give Republicans a bad name.  Now everyone thinks we're abortion-clinic-bombing-anti-gay assholes.
MAX: Now you know how I feel.  Everyone thinks Mexicans are just cheap landscapers.
ME: We don't have a lot of Mexicans in my neighborhood.
MAX: Maybe that's why your lawn looks so shitty.

GINA: Sarah had a really difficult labor so they had to deliver her second baby via circumcision.

ME: Marriage is like IKEA.  You think you have all the parts to make it work but in the end you're just alone in the dark, crying and stabbing yourself with an Allen wrench.

MY PROFESSOR(turning on the overhead projector): Ordinarily this is where I would hand out the syllabus and we would discuss it but the copier is broken again and the Dean is too damned cheap to get us a new one so instead I'd like to share this YouTube video of a walrus doing push-ups.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Prepping for Doomsday

I have spoken often of my penchant for colossally shitty reality television.  "Toddlers & Tiaras"?  Yes, please.  "Intervention"?  But of course.  "Dance Moms" AND "Dance Moms Miami"?  Oh, HELL to the yeah.  But by far my current favorite has got to be the epic train wreck that is "Doomsday Preppers".  If you haven't seen this show...*

*Seriously?  Get thee to a NetFlix, STAT!

...the basic premise is that each episode follows three different people and their families as they get ready for the end of the world.  One guy prepared his children to forage for food by feeding them bugs, one lady explained the proper method for skinning squirrels, and perhaps my favorite was the man who built an underground bunker out of 41 school buses.  His plan?  That at the end of the world he would gather all of the children and take them underground to safety.  Just the children.  Alone.  With him.  Underground.  I think we can all see where this one is headed.

Although I don't necesarily believe that there is an impending Apocalypse...sort of...I am incredibly fascinated by the concept of it.  But why are so many people obsessed with the concept of the End of The World?  Because a small part of wants to believe that we are so badass we would survive it all.  I'd like to think that I would rule in some futuristic, post-Apocalyptic District 12 meets  Thunderdome society but in truth I am just a big asshole and would most likely be dead before the zombies took over my stronghold at the local Target.

Honestly, the people on "Doomsday Preppers" already had a leg up on the rest of us before they began preppin' because they're all a bunch of dipshit rednecks who already have their skillsets honed: They fix trucks, they hunt, they know guns and they tend to stay away from the cities. Of course they'd survive the end of the world - hell, they wouldn't even have to make any major lifestyle changes.

Since we didn't get Raptured either time Harold Camp promised we would and the Mayans don't seem to know their asses from a hole in the Yucatan, it looks like I've got some time to get my shit together and begin preparing for the inevitable.  So I've compiled a list of the things I need to accomplish before the Big Show.

1.  Start stockpiling canned goods.
2.  Obtain sufficient stores of potable water, iodine, and lime wedges for piquancy.
3.  Hook up gas generator and hand-crank ham radio.
4.  Start hanging out with fat people in case of a Donner Party situation.
5.  Stockpile batteries and ammunition.
6.  Write an apologetic letter to the Unabomber acknowledging that he was right all along.
7.  Train myself to disregard traffic lights. . .wait, already done that.
8.  Convert my paychecks to bullion.
9.  Hide the bullion in a hard-to-find-but-easy-to-remember location.
10.  Realize that everyone will think to look under my bed.
11.  Magnetize the bullion and stick it to the back of the refrigerator.
12.  Learn CPR, first aid, and at-home euthanasia.
13.  Replace "fluent in Excel, Access, and Powerpoint" on my resume with "killed her a bear when she was only three".
14.  Buy walkie-talkies.
15.  Come up with bad-ass walkie-talkie code name like "Jen-o-cide".
16.  Radically downgrade my personal grooming and hygiene. . .oh yeah, already done that one too.
17.  Trade in my SUV for diesel burning, armor-plated school bus.
18.  Start looking for a man who can purify water, build a spring trap, and perform surgery without anesthesia.
19.  Start recognizing bar codes on grocery items as just another way the government is tracking me.
20.  Suggest the US Postal Service change their slogan to "Neither snow, nor rain, nor inevitable collapse of industrialized society shall stay these couriers..."
21.  Start brushing up on my lootin' skills.
22.  Be prepared to sleep with as many men as possible in case the world needs repopulating. . .son of a bitch, there's one more I can cross off my list.
23.  Come up with zesty and flavorful recipes for squirrel.
24.  Choose someone I hate to blame for society's downfall.
25.  Begin amassing rocks with which to stone him/her to death.
25.  Choose a follow-up person to blame when shit gets worse.
26.  Begin amassing rocks with which to stone him/her to death.
27.  Wonder why everyone else is amassing rocks and watching me cryptically.
28.  Accept that even in a war-torn, post-apocalyptic society my student loan officers will still find me.
29.  Identify the local children with the least useful skills and nutritional value.
30.  Volunteer said children as tributes.
31.  Begin capturing flatulence in baggies to harvest my own methane.
32.  Stop being so goddamned smug about the Amish.

As a species, we like the apocalypse in the same way that an emo teenager might like the idea of their own funeral: We want to see our decaying remains and revel in the tragic glory that we couldn't appreciate until it was too late.  And on a personal level, the apocalypse appeals to my raging arrogance because, let's face it, when you talk about doomsday, you're really saying "that time when everybody else died, but not me, suckas!" That's all it cosmic game of "I'm the King of the Mountain" where you (and possibly Kirk Cameron) are the last one's Left Behind.

Are YOU ready?

Monday, April 23, 2012

Dining For Douchebags

Many of you have heard me rant on ad nauseum about the increasing lack of social graces in this country.  Indeed it seems as though etiquette, and Jesus!  Even basic table manners have disappeared faster than a box of doughnuts after a Weight Watchers meeting.  Now, I’m not talking about some Emily-Post-white-glove-nineteen different-shrimp/salad/dinner-forks-around-your plate-like-it’s-a-fucking-cutlery-Stonehenge type of dickery; I’m talking about basic knowledge like not clipping your toenails in line at Chipotle or regaling me with the history of your last pap smear over your cell phone in Starbucks.  Most people seem to be accepting of this slow disintegration of civility while other assholes concerned citizens such as myself have simply lined their personal borders with razor wire and gun turrets as a grand “Fuck you” to the general public.

Never before was such a surreal breach of etiquette made manifest than at dinner last Saturday night.  OK, a little backstory just to get the party started. . .

All this week I have been as giddy as a Japanese teen in a Hello Kitty store because ((“SQUEE!”)) my Twitter-brutha Curtis and his friend Jamie were coming to Portland from Cali to celebrate his 30th birthday!*

*This was the first time I’d met Curtis in person and his fabulousness did not disappoint.  Nor did Jamie’s. . .within 5 minutes of knowing her she belched in my presence and let me touch her boobs.  I’m in love with them both.

So after a day of shopping, eating, and mocking the patrons of the Saturday Market we began preparing for dinner.  Now, not only was Curtis turning 30, but his cousin Vickie was as well so they had planned an entire 30’s themed dinner party, complete with full vintage costume.  I, of course, being a nonconformist way too fucking lazy to buy a costume, showed up in a sequined mini-dress and platform fuschia heels.*

*My neighbor told me I looked like J-Lo. . .or maybe she said I’m a ‘ho.  Either way, yea me!

When we arrived at the restaurant, Curtis, Jamie and I were a trifle annoyed to find that the majority of the guests showed up around 8:00pm for a 7:30pm reservation.  Now, first of all, I eat like a goddamned octogenarian so this dining after eight crap does not set well with my metabolism.  By the time each guest was seated, I was ready to go all Uruguyan soccer player on the next asshole who walked by.

Curtis and Jamie were seated to my right, and a lovely blonde couple took up residence on my left.  They introduced themselves as Sean and Amber and that is when the evening’s festivities began in earnest.  Within five minutes I had ascertained that Sean was one of those overgrown fraternity assholes who enjoys binge drinking and regaling you with tales of his days dropping Bing cherries from his ass into shot glasses at the Phi Delt house and Amber had about as much going on upstairs as a yam.*

*I hate to be judgmental, but I’m just so fucking GOOD at it!

Immediately Sean crept under my skin when he began scouring the menu as though there would be a quiz on it later and informed Amber that, “We’d better share the chicken because it’s so expensive here!”  He then proceeded to grin like Joe Isuzu on crack and blather on to me about how much money he made.  Curtis and I tried to avert our eyes and avoid engaging but it was like being trapped on a cross-country flight with a Jehovah’s Witness who sells life insurance.  There was no escape.

We had a slight reprieve while the salads were being served, but as Curtis’ was placed before him he excused himself to have a photo taken with his lovely cousin.  At that moment a hand darted in front of me and grabbed at Curtis’ salad bowl.

“What IS this?” cried Sean, passing the bowl to Amber.  She shrugged blankly as he took the bowl back and I watched in abject horror as he poked one of the beets with his index finger and loudly sniffed the bowl's contents.  “Seriously, what IS this?”

“I. . .it’s beets.” I stammered as Jamie stifled her laughter between bites of baguette.  “Umm. . .let’s put it back, OK?”  He shrugged and handed back Curtis’ salad bowl.  As Curtis came back to the table I just had time to hiss “Holy fucking shit, he just SNIFFED your salad!” before Curtis dropped his fork in horror.

Then the entrees arrived.  Sean and Amber judiciously divided their discount chicken and ((shudder)) began to feed one another.  Then Sean’s gaze drifted over to our dinners.

“Whoa!” he hooted, pointing at Curtis’ plate “that looks awesome! What did you get?”

“It’s duck.” Curtis said flatly, hoping to deflect any further interaction.

“Man, I gotta try that!” grinned Sean as he reached toward Curtis’ plate.

“Here!” cried Curtis, brandishing a piece before him on a fork, “Just take it!”

After first attempting to (I shit you not) eat from Curtis’ fork, Curtis recoiled and flung the meat onto Sean’s plate like he was slopping the hogs.  I then caught Sean eying my dish.

Damn! That looks awesome!” he shouted with glee, fork at the ready, “are those scallops?” OK, first of all, I don’t share food.  I just. . .no.  Secondly, it was now about 9:00pm and you don’t fuck with a psychotically aggressive woman with the blood sugar of Lot’s wife.  “Yes they are,” I replied “I’d offer you some but I’m not sure if my latest herpes outbreak is in full remission”.  He retreated reluctantly with one last longing gaze at my shellfish.

Jamie looked up from her dinner thoughtfully.  “I’m picturing a scenario involving a remote cabin…and wolves.  It’s not fully fleshed out though.”  As I was stifling my laughter yet again I heard my phone chirp.  I extracted it from my bag and read the text while Curtis gazed innocently around the table.

After that we kept our phones ensconced in our laps so as to better share the snark in peace as we watched our fellow guests dodging Sean’s fork like it was a fight scene from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon”.

It was at that point that his sweet yet dim-witted girlfriend Amber leaned over with a smile.

“Vickie and are such good friends.  I’m sooooo glad I could be here for her 30th birthday.  Are you her mom?”

Wait. . .Back.  The fuck.  Up.  Now I’ll be honest, I don’t mind surrounding myself with stupid people.  The clever ones just get bored and aren’t as easy to manipulate but did she?  I. . .wait, wha-WHAT!?!?

“No”, I smiled through clenched teeth. “You see,  that would make me ten when she was born”.  Amber pondered this thoughtfully while I blackened Curtis’ shins under the table to keep him from laughing himself into an asthma attack.

“Oh,” Amber slowly drawled, “yeah. . .that probably wouldn’t work.”

“I don’t know,” Curtis replied, “have you seen most of those ten year old girls today?  Whores.  All of them, whores.”

Amber nodded solemnly and began attempting to eat her vegetables.  Unfortunately, as she was in full vintage gear, she was struggling and loudly bemoaned the fact that she wasn’t sure how to eat her carrots without getting her gloves dirty.

“Well,” Jamie offered helpfully, “you could always take OFF your gloves.  And of course, there are forks.  Forks are good.”*
*I pride myself in my ability to mask my blatant sarcasm but Jamie was a thing of wonder.  That bitch could fake it like a whore being paid by the moan.  Much love, Jamie. ((s-l-o-w c-l-a-p))

Thrilled with her newfound ability to use cutlery, Amber dove into her vegetables with glee while Vickie’s boyfriend led everyone in a round of Happy Birthday.  As for the performance of said song, let me simply note that each time the words “you” were uttered, Sean made ‘shooting guns’ fingers at both Vickie and Curtis and finished the final crescendo by standing and making. . .wait for it. . .jazz hands.  I will now give you a moment to absorb the true douchebaggery of it all.

((moment of silence))

As the party was winding down, Sean noticed that the party in the next room was exiting as well.  Without a word, he rose and made his way to the adjoining room.  He returned shortly after with a plate laden with food.

“Wait,” I sputtered “did. . .did you just take food from someone else’s party?”

“Damn, this is AMAZING!” he mumbled while cramming food into his greasy maw. “What IS this shit?”  Moments later the restaurant manager arrived at his side and he quickly grabbed her arm.  “Hey, what were they eating in there?  This is great!”

Looking stunned, but God bless her professional to the core she politely informed him as to the contents of his pilfered food.

“Since they’re all done, can you box this shit up for me?” he grinned; mouth smeared with mustard sauce.  Visibly recoiling, the manager stepped slowly away from the table and retreated to the kitchen.  It was at this point that Curtis, Jamie and I bid our adieus and wandered back to the hotel room in stunned silence.

“If I hadn’t witnessed it I would totally call bullshit if you described that dinner.” I whispered quietly.

“It. . .I. . .there are no words.”  Curtis agreed, shaking his head slowly.

Jamie looked up in fear, “Oh Jesus, you don’t think they’ll breed, do you?”

The three of us shuddered in silence and stared straight ahead, trying desperately to process the evening.

I know we should be a world of ‘live and let live’ and that far too often we get caught up in the Orwellian mentality of shoving our noses into other people’s lifestyles, but for the love of God, Mother Mary, and the Sweet Baby Jeebus we are not a soluistic society, so unless you want me to punch you so hard that you scream like a Backstreet Boy taking a polo mallet to the nuts then take one for the team and at least ATTEMPT to behave like a fully evolved homo sapien in public.  And to Sean and the rest of his ilk out there dwelling on the ‘crassy knoll’, if you don’t wish to join the rest of us in this noble pursuit of civility then the rest of us would like to cordially invite you to please go fuck yourself.

Happy birthday, Curtis!


PS: Come check out my podcast with Noa and Alicia from OhNoa.  We discuss everything from giraffes with pipe bombs to Nathan Fillion's testicles.  Good times, my friends:

Sunday, April 22, 2012

The Red Dress Playlist: "Picture To Burn"

A few weeks back, I started a self-improvement project, inspired by Jenny Lawson, the Great Bloggess. To read about the origin of my project, look here. For the short version, each week I will set out to conquer something that is holding me back from being the person I want to be. A relationship, a memory, a fear. . .anything that makes me less than I am. I will attack each challenge wearing my red dress as a cape for inspiration and as a symbol of the superheroes we all are inside. My goal is to undertake the daunting task of taking one crazy, neurotic, and mentally unstable woman and molding her into a productive member of our crazy, neurotic, and mentally unstable society.

I have this bizarre inability to throw anything away.  Newspaper clippings, notes from friends, long outgrown clothing. . .  I'm not exactly a "Hoarder" per se; more of a "Doomsday Prepper"  in that in the back of my mind I somehow believe that these seemingly innocuous items might actually prove to be crucial to my future survival.*

*When I need to barter for provisions at The Hob in post-apocalyptic America those expired red Robin groupons are gonna come in handy, yo!

Or maybe I'm just egotistical.*

*Pfft!  Like there was any lingering doubt about that.

And maybe my raging narcissism makes me want to leave a legacy;  a flag planted squarely on planet Earth that says "JEN WAS HERE".  Shit, maybe that's why I blog. And maybe that's why I've saved every love letter I've ever received going clear back to elementary school when Garrett Meyer asked me if I liked him and could I please check "yes" or "no".*

*Of course, today Garrett is a successful cardio-thoracic surgeon and I'm just some dipshit with bad insurance and a hoopty laptop.  In retrospect, I chose poorly.

Some of the letters and notes I keep because they make me happy.  The note from Garrett.  The handmade Mother's Day cards from my short people, a printed copy of the Tweet I got from Nathan Fillion.  Umm, yeah...have I mentioned that Nathan Tweeted me?  Oh, I have?  Yeah, well, I shall continue to mention it because aside from the birth of my lovely children that is the closest I've come to seeing God.  Anyhoo, these are all happy notes.  Birthday cards from dear friends, letters of recommendation from professors; things that make me feel special and loved.

But then I have another desk drawer.  This one is crammed with memories that are bittersweet and I find myself delving into that drawer on the nights that I feel lonely or when my self-esteem is lower than the combined IQ of the "Jersey Shore" cast.  This drawer is filled with pictures of my ex-husband and I when we were dating, and newly married.  Atop these photos sits a bundle of letters, held together with a simple rubber band -- love letters my ex wrote to me when we first met, letters filled with promises of a long life together after we were married, and letters of apology; swearing that this was the "last time" he'd ever hurt me and that he would "never, ever cheat on me again" that ran throughout the course of our marriage.  In truth I don't know why I've saved them as reading them and gazing at the photos only brings me pain and sorrow, but the tiny self-harming voice inside of me, the one that led me to a life of eating disorders, alcoholism and self-abuse can't seem to look away.

My friend Kelly wanted me to burn these letters as a way of "exorcising" past demons for this week's project and in truth, the thought of a kick-ass bonfire sounded pretty magical.  I also considered tie-dying my wedding gown or using it as a dropcloth, but the more I thought about it, the more my thoughts came back to my nine-year-old twin sons.

One small part of me thought that my boys may someday want to know that there was a time when Mommy and Daddy didn't despise one another and could actually be in the same room together for an extended period of time.  I want my short people to know that before we became "Mommy" and "Daddy" we were "Jen" and "Gil".  I want them to know that they were desperately wanted children and that they truly were conceived in love.  I hope that as they grow older they will recognize that we were only human, faults and all, and that we did the best we could with what we had and that for better or worse I will always be thankful that their father was a part of my life because he made me stronger by tearing me down, and he gave me the two greatest gifts in my life.  And yes, maybe some grandiose part of me felt that by keeping these relics around I would be cheating Death in some way, but hey!  That's okay too.

So, in the end I did not burn the photos and letters.  Instead, I boxed them up with my wedding album, taped it tightly closed, and brought it to my bank's safe deposit box.  I no longer have access to the painful and self-destructive memories, but someday my boys will have those photos and have that little sliver of our world before they existed.  Someday they will open the box and be stunned by how young Mom and Dad were and understand that there was love.  Perhaps not healthy, functional love; but there was in fact love.  Don't be afraid to put your heart out there, boys.  It will get broken, it will get tarnished, but it is only by being broken down that you can truly be broken open.  Don't be afraid to let your red cape fly.


Thursday, April 19, 2012

Fasting: You're Doing It Wrong

Recently a plague swept through our town, knocking down everyone in its wake and smacking my ass like a hooker at a gangbang.  For the last two weeks the entire city has been coughing and wheezing like Carnie Wilson in a Zumba class and the other day my hippy-dippy friend, Kellydecided it was time to take action.

I love Kelly so therefore I express my fondness for her as I do all of my friends by mocking the ever-loving shit out of her lifestyle.  She is a militant vegan, non-car-owning bike commuter, and a proponent of holistic health care; all things that make me touchier than a priest at a Vatican summer camp.  I am not one to generally believe in this “peace, love and tofu” bullshit, but as I also did not believe I could go one more day feeling like I’d shoved my lungs into a blender filled with drywall screws, I agreed to join Kelly on a two-day cleansing juice fast.

Fasting is not new to me as I spent several years starving myself, but doing it in a healthy manner is something of an alien concept.*

*When I got out of college my diet consisted of Skittles and Potter's vodka.  I was a bulimic/anorexic wanna-be, but my raging alcoholism always held me back.

If you close your eyes it almost tastes like mangoes.  Mangoes covered in horseshit and aquarium scum.

The basic premise of this fast is that for 48 hours you drink only warm lemon water, a detoxing herbal tea blend, and a green juice made of fruits, vegetables, and spirulina.  After about eight hours of this dickery I came to two conclusions.  First, I would get my ass kicked at the Hunger Games, and second, if you subsist on nothing but dandelion tea and green juice then somebody will get killed.  Either I'll keel over on the stairs in a pool of my own spirulina-tinged vomit or I will stab someone in the neck with a Sharpie just to watch them die. Apparently the stabby thoughts are good however as Kelly informed me that was just my body’s reaction to the toxins leaving my body.*

*And after ingesting so much tea consisting of dandelion, geranium and hibiscus, when I pee I experience the fresh scent of potpourri.  Huzzah!

Apparently another sign of detoxification is that after the first day you get to enjoy projectile diarrhea, bad breath, and sweating like David Duke at a Black Panthers rally.  And this isn’t your normal sweat; this is Frenchman-eating-liverwurst-in-a-port-a-john sweat.  All the Speed Stick in the world could not vanquish this stank.

Having made it through Day 1, I actually did start to feel a little better, but seriously?
Why do they call it a fast when it goes so fucking slow?  To be honest, the next time I feel like detoxing my body I’ll just check into Betty Ford for a few weeks.  I don’t get why people are so down on rehab; spending six weeks lying on a couch, drinking coffee, and talking about myself all day sounds like heaven.  By about 4 PM I officially lost my shit and proceeded to go all Mike Tyson on the dude standing next to me at the stoplight for playing his iPod too loudly.*

*In my defense, he was listening to Coldplay.  Chris Martin fills me with the white hot hatred of a thousand suns.

So in the interest of productivity and keeping my sorry ass from getting arrested for throwing a Molotov Cocktail into the surrounding populi, I cried ‘uncle’ and went to the food trucks.  I stealthily tucked my burrito into my purse and crept back to my cubicle where I may have unhinged my jaw like a python and inhaled the entire thing without chewing.*

*I will neither confirm nor deny this rumor.

This place is my raison d'etre.

Ten minutes later, feeling guilt-ridden and bloated, I decided to confess my indiscretion to Kelly.  I walked the two miles to her house, let myself in through the kitchen door, peeked around the corner, and watched as she took one last bite of her Vindaloo curry.  Wait. . .wha-WHAT!?!?

ME: You broke the fast too?


ME: The juice fast!  I felt all guilty and shit because I just had a burrito and you’re over here eating curry!

KELLY (snorting with laughter):  Oh my God, did you think I was serious about the fast?

ME:  Wha. . .I. . .you mean I have been drinking dandelion jizz and pond scum for two days and you were kidding!?!?

KELLY (between paroxysm of hysteria):  Payback for giving me your cold, Bitch.

ME: I hate you so hard right now. . .are you going to finish that curry?


Monday, April 16, 2012

Puttin' the "Fun" Back in "Funeral"

After spending the last 48 hours blowing my nose more times than a coked-up hotel heiress and coughing up enough phlegm to choke a narwhal, I have come to the conclusion that I’m dying. Well, I mean. . .technically we’re all dying. This very moment, every cell and nerve ending in your body is slowly breaking down and will eventually die off altogether.  So, I'd advise you to start panicking now.*
*Well, I suppose you could just be all Zen-like and be at peace with your imminent mortality, but c’mon.  The argument for psychosis vs. enlightenment and spirituality pretty much makes itself.
Even if you eat healthy and exercise, you will only delay the inevitable, but go ahead and do it anyway so you at least look cute on the autopsy table.  Seeing as how I am obviously just one virus away from the Big Sleep, I decided it was time to begin putting my affairs in order and making sure that in death (as in life) it is all about me.

RULE #1:
If I die as the result of some gruesome crime or trendy disease like mesothelioma or monkey AIDS the media is bound to take notice.  If you are contacted for a tearful interview or to collaborate on the film adaptation, you are permitted to speak with the following: John Quinones, Matt Lauer, Tom Brokaw, Sean Hannity, Morgan Spurlock, or my fellow Oregonian, Ann Curry.  At no time are you ever to speak to Stone Phillips, Anderson Cooper, Michael Moore, Larry King, or Oprah Winfrey. . .she knows why.

RULE #2:
Seeing as how I’m all benevolent and shit, I am a card-carrying organ donor.  That being said, I don’t want my corneas and aortic valves going to just anyone.  I have standards.  So if it comes down to two or more potential recipients I would like the following to be used as a tie-breaker.
·        No prior felonies.
·        Must be committed to lobbying for tort reform.
·        Can recite all of the lyrics to Nicki Minaj’s “Starship”.
·        Can name the actor that played Cousin Oliver on “The Brady Bunch”.
It would also be fabulous if the recipient was at least 5’7” and weighed between 115-125 pounds as I was never able to achieve said status in life.

RULE #3:
If I am murdered by my ex-spouse I want Ann Rule to write the book.  At no time shall I be portrayed in the inevitable LifeTime Movie of the Week by Kellie Martin, Candace Cameron, Tori Spelling, or any alumni of “Saved By the Bell”.
Except for Screech.  Screech is rad as shit.

RULE #4:
Rather than a hearse, I would like my corpse transported by the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. And pick up the pace, y’all! No twenty mile an hour pileup that ruins traffic for everybody else, please. I hated getting stuck behind those motherfuckers while I was living, I certainly don't want to be the cause of them now that I'm not. The last thing I want is some overindulged suburban hausfrau cursing my desiccated husk for making her late to her Junior League bake sale.

RULE #5:
I do not wish my tombstone to simply say “Mother” or “Friend”.  Get creative with phrases like “Warrior Princess” or “Supreme Mistress of the Underworld”.  It’s not like anyone is going to actually verify it.  And for Christ’s sake use a decent font because if I’m taking a dirt nap in perpetuity under some Comic Sans douchebaggery then I will haunt your ass. And at least once a year I ask that you stand at my grave and pour a little malt liquor on the grass.  Keep it gangsta, yo.
"This one's for my homie."

RULE #6:
Don’t hold back the waterworks.  You might assume that given my cynical nature and propensity for dickery that I would want a whimsical and light-hearted eulogy.  You’d be wrong.  I want you all to cry like a pack of little bitches.  Pick a church with good acoustics.

RULE #7:
While we’re on the subject of who shall deliver my eu-googily, I have two words: Morgan Freeman.  That is all.

RULE #8:
I expect all of you to stand up and talk about how fabulous I am.  Don’t be shy; now is not the time for polite discretion.  I have supplied some helpful conversation starters to get the ball rolling.  You’re welcome.
·        “Jen led a life of joy, passion, and childlike wonder…”
·        “When I compare myself to Jen I see just how pointless my existence has been…”
·        “I’ve always been secretly jealous of Jen…”
·        FOR MY EXES: “When I look at the coterie of skank-ass ‘hos I dumped Jen for, I now see that it was just a way of pushing away her pure and undying love in order to mask my own insecurities and closeted homosexuality…”
·        “Few people know this, but Jen was the inspiration for Warrant’s ‘Cherry Pie’…”
·        “Later in life, Jen developed an allergy to shellfish and angst…”
·        “I’d now like to step down so we can hear from the man who knew her best: Nathan Fillion…”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pick just the right ensemble to put the “fun” in “funeral”.  Ooh!  Do you think H&M makes shrouds?