A Dead Topic

I remember a few years ago, I was having dinner with my parents and I brought up that if something should happen to me, that I wanted to be cremated. I didn't want anyone staring at this shell that I'm living in, propped up in some gaudy box only to have the last time they see me is as a wax dummy all pumped full of formaldehyde. I wanted them to remember me as a living, dancing, laughing, screaming jackass.

Well, my Dad just about shit his pants.

He got angry and bellowed out, "WHAT HAPPENS ON JUDGMENT DAY WHEN THEY COME TO JUDGE THE LIVING AND THE DEAD?? WHERE'S YOUR BODY GOING TO BE???"

I don't know about you, but I love completely insane arguments. They're the best kind.

So, I said, "Dad, what is ANYBODY going to do? Are people who've been dismembered or beheaded or are just plain ole falling apart because they're...you know, decomposing, going to make a bee-line for Home Depot to buy up all their duct tape, glue and staples to try to piece themselves together to look presentable for the divine maker??? Come on..."

He was having NONE-OF-IT.

He retaliated, "WE'RE NOT GOING TO DO THAT TO YOU. SO, FORGET ABOUT IT."

This actually pissed me off. And I resisted, "You wouldn't actually be doing it to me, you'd be doing it to a body."

He wasn't buying it.

Me, "So, you mean that you wouldn't honor my last wish?"

Him, "Nope."

After I fantasized throwing spaghetti at his head, but remembering how much I LOVE spaghetti, we let the conversation die (HA! DIE? Get it? Of course, you do...sorry.).

This was all coming from a man who has stated on numerous occasions that when his time comes, he doesn't want to pay for an ambulance, so throw him in a wheel barrow and run to the nearest hospital.

Then, he said when he bites it, he'd like to be dragged to the cemetery by a raging herd of elephants, his body bouncing and skidding on the pavement the entire way there. Oh yeah, and to have a New Orleans Dixie-land jazz band playing at the cemetery.

I think that we can arrange the band, but the former might be a little difficult. Unless the cemetery is out on the Serengeti...or at Busch Gardens.

A raging herd of elephants? Bouncing? Skidding? And HE'S worried about being presentable for JUDGMENT DAY??? Dude...

Well, some time past and this last December when Will and I were in New Mexico with my folks, I stated how I no longer wish to be cremated, but would prefer a green burial. I don't want to contaminate the Earth like George W did when he lived or died in that lovers' quarrel. And I'd prefer NO STUPID FUCKING CHEMICALS, but would just like to be wrapped in something like taffeta, gold lame, or really just some Egyptian cotton will do (I like at least an 800 thread count on my ass and balls), throw me in a deep ditch and plant a tree over me. So, that the tree could live and thrive over my heaving, muscled man flesh.

I'd prefer a mighty Oak or a dramatic Sequoia, if anyone is taking notes. And as much as I like Maples, they're just a little too sticky, so, you can plant one near me, just not on me. Okay?

Anyway, Dad was better with this. And he must have remembered our previous conversation, because he said, "I like this idea better than that cremation crap."

When Will and I previously discussed this topic, he had instructed me to cremate him and wanted his ashes divided up amongst some old friends, with a portion to go to an old BOYFRIEND. (We may have been drinking at the time and may have been a little stoned as well during this contemplation...and maybe not.) I wanted to honor his wishes, but my genes are half of my Father's...hopefully. So, I said, "I'm not giving that asshole half of your ashes, he doesn't deserve them!" (Note to self: if he hadn't been an asshole, you wouldn't be with Will, dipshit.)

Then Will just said all cool, calm and collected, "You know what? Do what you want with me. I don't care. I'm not going to be there."

OOOhhhhhh...all Mister smarty pants and Master zen-like. Whatever.

But seriously, he was right. I would like it if I didn't further contaminate the Earth in death, like we do in life. But, when it comes down to it, the whole funeral thing and burial crap really isn't for the dead, it's for the living. And however my family needs to do it is cool.

Except, I hope that they'd like to plant a big diva-like tree over me, like a Weeping Willow. But maybe think of that tree weeping from laughing so hard not because I was just a jackass in life, but somehow in death too.

And I also hope that they bury me in gold lame, with an afro stapled to my head, hot pants riding up my crack and roller skates glued to my feet.

After all, I would like to roll in on Judgment Day with a little bit of style. And I have a distinct feeling that god likes disco. She'd better, or there's gonna be hell to pay.

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This comes to us compliments of our dashing correspondent, Dickie in D.C. Thanks, Dickie! It's a classic scene from Roseanne, where Jackie is trying to tell her aunt that her father is dead. I actually never saw that sitcom, but this scene is just frickin' hysterical. I hope that you enjoy it.