I’m Warming Up To The Idea Of Cremation

I JUST DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT

My body burning to ashes.

I’m good with dying.

Its not like I have a choice.

I knew the risks after birth.

The inevitable.

Tick-Tock.

MY STARRING GIG

In the “Here & Now” will eventually run its course.

I get it.

“The Sh!t Show: Live from Wherever The Hell I am …” wasn’t lasting forever.

I’m bailing.

As soon as the final credits loop out.

To Eternity.

The Penthouse.

Hopeful, really.

PENDING MY APPLICATION APPROVAL

I’m a little nervous about it.

What?

The Final Interview in The White Room Behind Pearly Gates with Gilded Harps Playing.

I’ve had a few too many spikes on my resume.

In God’s Test and Trust.

A bunch of things I’m having trouble explaining.

A few I don’t remember.

GOOD TIMES, RIGHT?

Its the rotting – two yards below the lawn in an overpriced wooden crate – that freaks me out.

Insects.

Decay. 

Worms.

Claustrophobia.

Pooch urine.

Dandelions.

And, the hellacious stench.

Do these contraptions come with air fresheners?

DEAR FAMILY

Please don’t get any grandiose stupid ideas about stuffing me into a wall cavity shrouded in Carrara marble and a Bronze plaque.

Especially if its the last of my money you’re going to blow.

You know I’ll get out.

I’m crafty.

I’ll haunt the crap out of you and every degenerate offspring you sire to follow.

I don’t care if we’re related.

So, we cool?

SUPPOSE I’M UNDEAD, THEN WHAT?

Me, gimping around, Zombie-like. 

No one needs to see that.

Pallid complexion.

Wonky gait.

Bad gums.

Horrifying Halitosis.

Death Breath.

So, no, again.

Call me vain.

Keith Richards can pull it off.

I can’t.

MAYBE IT WASN’T A SPLENDID IDEA

Reading,How Cremation Works.”

How else would I know:

“The term ‘ashes’ is a bit misleading, since what families receive after a cremation isn’t a soft powder, but instead a grayish, coarse material, like fine gravel, made from the ground-up remains of bones.”

Okay, now you know how Kitty Litter is made.

Meow.

Nope.

A BETTER IDEA

Burning to cinder aggregate in a 1,900 degree furnace isn’t a riot of knee-slapping guffaws?

I’m proposing we cultivate a cottage industry on its by-product:

Low-Tech.

Fortifying the ash into Piranha feed pellets.

Or, Koi fish.

KoochFinNuggets®.

Roll-Back Pricing – now only $2.99 lb. – at the People’s Republic of WalMart.

IT BEATS THE UNIMAGINATIVE ATERNATIVE

Funeral Homes creep me out slightly more than Taxidermy displays.

Because I can’t tell the difference.

Is there a difference?

To clarify, I’m good with funeral services and burials.

I’m just not having one.

And, you can’t make me.

Actually, you can, but don’t.

FUN FACT CONFESSION #1

A Celebration of Life.

When I’m completely dead.

Seems fair.

I’ve been to a few good ones.

I laughed, mostly.

People were having a good time.

Drinking, noshing.

Okay, perhaps not so much the Guest of Honor …

And cried, not so much.

Out of confessed love, admiration, respect.

I’M AWKWARD IN THESE SITUATIONS

What’s worse, its obvious.

Like a sunburn at a nudist colony.

I never enjoy attending these things.

I’m afraid to leave even after over staying.

I’ll pull a Classic French (*) Exit – disappearing without saying Goodbye – because its what I do best and is expected of me.

And, I’m Ancestry-certified 2.0% French.

FUN FACT CONFESSION #2

I’m curating the soundtrack to be played at my Last Soiree.

Check my iPhone for the playlist.

Skip My Workout Mix.

Go light on the judgement there, amici.

It’ll be heavy on Classic Rock and R & B.

Old School Funk and Motown.

With some fluffy, bubble-gum 70s Pop standards.

Because I just had to let that out of the closet.

Silly Love Songs.

So, now you know.

Judge away …

Boney M haters look away.

THE MENU

I’m doing Food Stations.

Or a themed food truck.  I know a guy.

Sticky fingers, messy hands … with dipping sauces.

Tacos, wraps, tapas.

Perogies.

A bowl of warm varietal olives on every table.

Non-negotiable.

It’ll be written in My Will.

IF THERE ARE TOASTS

Please eat an olive in my honor.

Gelato, too.

And, Jell-O.

Strawberry dipped in chocolate.

COUNT ON THIS SPEECH

By a drunken guest who barely made the invite list:

“I miss Mark.  Crazy Son-of-a-Bitch.  Yeah, we all knew Dave was kind of a big asshole.  And, a bigger prick.  Cheap, too.  The gambling, drinking, whoring himself the way he did … But let’s not forget who John was … He was an asshole, but Henry was our asshole, right?  Here’s to you, Brad.  Good times, bitch.”

From Dennis.

My 9 year-old former paperboy.

Out on a weekend furlough from rehab.

Holding a Calabrese olive over his head.

Hopped up and head fuzzy after the apple cider punch he’s been chugging miraculously fermented.

SPEAKING OF LIBATIONS

Beer and wine.

Tequila, yes.

Cut off Dennis early.

A smoothie bar.

FLOWERS

One rose would be about right. 

No more, please.

Pink, yellow, white.

Or a Red Carnation.

A Mysterious Man wearing a small gold crescent pinned to the hollow of his shoulder on the left will reveal the purpose of The Red Carnation.

DRESS CODE

Anything, but black.

You wear black, you’re not getting in.

Shoes and socks included.

How do you feel about a White Theme?

Or denim, which could be a bit much if acid wash comes back.

SNAPPING, NO CLAPPING

Because it will all be slow claps (Dennis, again).

A tradition.

Ask the Mysterious Man about the snapping.

WHAT ABOUT THE ASHES?

If the KoochFinNuggets® limited production promo doesn’t work – did we price ourselves out of the market, miss the mark on the name, or is it simply a no demand thing? – either way, let’s go with truly organic composting.

Garden fertilizer.  

Does anyone really need my remains sprinkled at the base of baby eggplants and squash?

Or extracted through slow-drip nutrients onto Hot House tomatoes?

Back to Kitty Litter. 

Where it’ll be appreciated and used.

Or, the Beach.

Somewhere warm and tropical, preferably.

Not the stinky city beach by the brackish gray lake water that is always cold.

NO MARKER

I had my chance to make an impression on this world.

“Oh, no I didn’t … ”

Not having to remind future inhabitants that I over consumed – time, space, and more than my fair portion of the planet’s resources – might just piss off a few vandals.

No thanks.

When I go, I’m gone.

Not a trace.

Unless, someone keeps this thing plugged in.

And keeps my subscription paid.

Dennis?