Monday, May 09, 2005
Shout, shout, let it all out, these are the things I can do without.I wish to imply no disrespect, but after hanging out at the funeral parlor all night, I think morticians are ghouls and typical American funeral customs are ghoulish. What's with all this weird funeral parlor ritual? It all smells like big money to me.
Fake, fake, fake. Are we that afraid of death and all its implications? It just seemed as though a facade of pretense had covered and overcome all common sense.
It's a feeling I get whenever I enter a funeral parlor. A hushed, perfumed, bordello-like atmosphere of supreme unfamiliarity and forced solemnity that makes even family and friends and well-wishers speak in whispers and say stupid things like "He looks so natural," when no, I'm sorry, he doesn't, because nobody in the room had ever seen him in a suit and tie before, and his beard was all trimmed up neatly, and to be perfectly honest, he looked like an amused stranger, and we all knew it, and people kept saying stuff like that anyway. Which is only polite, but my nerves were shot and I wasn't having any of it. People never know what to say at a funeral parlor.
At my funeral, I want everybody to say things like "Wow, even when she's dead, she still throws a hell of a party! Pass the ice, would you?" And "The neighbors called; they want us to turn down the music, but Mamacita's directive clearly states that the dial be set on eleven all night." And, "It's time for the mortician in the bad, bad suit and the chef's hat to serve the pizza." And "What time is it? We're supposed to start flushing the ashes down the toilet at midnight."
No facades for me. I'll be dead, and I won't care. That's why I'm leaving directions for a party. A houlie. A gangster's wake. I want to be remembered with smiles, not with tears. And you can be as loud as you want. It's not like you're going to wake me up or anything, sheesh.
A person's funeral is their last chance to host a party, and I want mine to be fun. If you can't remember me kindly and party on at the same time, please don't come to my funeral. I want memories and laughter and food and dancing and fun, not a bunch of dressed-up solemn priss-faces who spent a hundred bucks on flowers when they really should have used that money for chips, dip, diet Coke, and beer. And brought it all with them.
You want to show respect to the deceased person? Set up their last party precisely according to their wishes.
Of course, if a person has no directives, then they deserve to be laid out in a ten thousand dollar casket, dressed in a suit they haven't worn for ten years if ever, and surrounded by expensive flowers and uncomfortable dressed-up people who had to take off from their jobs because morticians schedule funerals during business hours.
Don't put it off, friends. Get that final party planned, and make sure your family knows your wishes.
And if they refuse to do as you say, come back and haunt them.
Posted by Mamacita (The REAL one) @ 10:12 PM | |