Yesterday I was planning my funeral, and not just because of the things I’ve said on this blog. Preparing a will is one of those things you do before you get married, and yes I do see the irony in that. No need to point it out.
Anyway, part of the estate planning process involves funeral directions. This is creepy because you spend a lot of time imagining yourself dead. And I have an unusually good imagination. A few more minutes of that and I would have been looking for a pottery class to haunt. Come to think of it, it’s been awhile since anyone gave me eye contact or answered a question.
First I had to decide whether I wanted to be buried, cremated, or stuffed and kept in the foyer with a menacing expression to scare children. I think I’d be an excellent coat rack. Depending on what I was doing when I died, I might even provide a place to hang an umbrella.
After much research I discovered that the coat rack option is less legal than you’d expect. That meant the choice was between being buried and incinerated. I carefully considered which option would be worse in the event that I suddenly sprung back to life. Would it be worse to be underground in a box or heading toward the oven on an unstoppable conveyor belt? I realize the doctors check corpses thoroughly these days to make sure they’re really dead. And I have to think that the embalming fluid would answer any lingering questions about sitting up. But still, I don’t want to take a chance. I reasoned that the flames would be quicker, so I went with cremation.
Next I had to decide what to do with my ashes. My first idea was to require each of the attendees at the funeral to dab some of my ashes on their chins. That would make for witty conversation at the ceremony as everyone tried to guess what part of me they were wearing, e.g. “Hey Bob, I think his scrotum is on your chin – AGAIN! Ha ha ha!”
Another tough decision involves – as the lawyers say – “designating the benificiaries of my estate.” Or as I say, deciding who will have the biggest financial incentive to kill me. My family members that enjoy reading murder mysteries or watching CSI went right to the bottom of the list. Pacifists, vegetarians, and people too feeble to wield blunt objects got some extra consideration.
I also had a problem imagining that anyone I currently know would still be alive when I die several hundred years from now. I’m a non-smoking vegetarian that exercises regularly. I’m only one or two medical advances from immortality. There’s a good chance I’ll end up leaving everything to my cat, Mittens The 27th, and the janitor at the rest home. So it all feels like a big waste of time. But it’s one of those things you have to do.
My favorite part of the plan involved the “special instructions” for my funeral. I’m requiring all the attendees to tell one filthy joke in front of the crowd.
Does anyone have any other ideas?