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