FUNeral

Funerals – a big party thrown for you on the one day that it’s an absolute certainty that you won’t be able to make it. And you’ll only miss it by just a couple of days too.

A few months ago I wrote a note on Facebook outlining my wishes if I were to meet a gruesome demise on my motorcycle. Well, that didn’t happen, but given the unpleasant unpredictability of death, and the recent perspective on mortality I’ve been presented with, I think it’s worth repeating, and updating. It evolves constantly too – I’ve got some changes, and some elaborations. No doubt in a year or so I’ll think differently. No doubt I’ll edit this post a lot.

But for now…:

I shall be cremated.  My coffin should be the dirtiest, cheapest, shittiest box that can be found. Duct-taped cardboard is fine.

When I arrive; being dragged by a motorcycle is perfectly acceptable, though obviously in deference to the likelihood of offending some people by that, I’ll settle for being chucked into the back of a van. Or my rigor-mortised corpse can be placed in the passenger seat (don’t forget to put sunglasses on me), and the drunkest person around can drive me to the hole in the ground with L plates on the car, so it looks like they’re just a shite learner driver, not pissed. If you are pulled over, you must say to the policeman, “yeah, he seemed a little quiet, must have given him a heart attack when I ran over that child back there…” Or something.

The vehicle must have beats, and shall be playing The Chemical Brothers “Hey Boy, Hey Girl” when it arrives at the chapel/crematorium/waste dump/public toilet.

Dress code is strictly op-shop. If the value of anyone’s attire exceeds $30, they must be named, shamed and fined. Proceeds go to some terribly important cause that will kick-start the myth that I was a much more caring and generous person than I actually am.

Speaking of which, my eugoogily is to be delivered in several parts, the first being a collaboration between the funny piss-taker types (you know who you are). Zoolander voices encouraged, but not essential if your original material is good enough to stand alone. The second part can be the obligitary sad/reflective period, to be delivered by someone terribly important (Senator…?), thus creating the myth that I was far more important than I actually am.

Then maybe a slideshow – some photos perhaps – with forlorn, deeply moving music. Maybe Leonard Cohen’s Hallelulja, sung by someone who has inhaled too much helium.

There can be an open mike, where anyone and everyone can have their say, so long as they are able to demonstrate that they’ve had a conversation with me in some form in the last two years. This is not the time for the guilty, “lost touch” types to try and feel better about themselves. No, you actually are a bad person. When I was alive I had a house to visit, an email address and several telephones where I could be contacted. Regardless of whoever does speak, I demand an orchestra plays them off if they don’t shut up after a couple of minutes.

Or the rest of you can throw fruit.

When I’m being burned, the halls are to be filled with Hayseed Dixie’s rendition of “This Fire” by Franz Ferdinand. There should be bad dancing, and singing along. This should see to it that people think I was a lot more free-spirited and happy than I actually am.

There will be a wake, where people are encouraged to alter their mind in whatever manner they see fit. Just do it at someone’s house. Bring children, bring pets, and for god’s sake bring a humorous anecdote so you can help spread the myth that I was much funnier than I actually am.

Everyone has to try to make friends with someone they’ve never met before, from a totally different walk of life. Greens can bond with motorcycle racers, Christians with queers, and people from Bunbury with people not from Bunbury, thus giving credence to the fable that I was more inclusive and accepting than I actually am.

I’ve said it before, but parties where you don’t get anything to take home are terrible. Do you remember the first party you went to as a kid that didn’t have a take-home bag of lollies or treats? Do you remember the utter despair, the disbelief, the outrage? Nah, me either, but I’m sure it might have happened to some people. So, when leaving the wake, everyone gets to choose a CD to keep. People will then believe that I was much less selfish and much more sharing than I actually am.

As for the rest of my stuff, perhaps I should make a will. I actually have stuff.

My ashes are to placed in pepper shakers of wanky cafés, and a little sticker affixed to the bottom that says “eat me”. This will demonstrate that I was much more committed to recycling than I actually am.

If this all sounds fun, please try to resist the urge to kill me. If it doesn’t, well – I’ll be dead, so what do I care?