Post-Mortem: The Road Show

Welcome to Post-Mortem, a series on all the fun and interesting ways I would love my future funeral to go.



The Road Show
God. He has houses all over the world. Some are simple and some are the grandest of grand. Somewhere in the world, is a good starting point for the eventual end.





I would like this storehouse of the diety's stuff to be quite large. It'll be made of real marble and every inch would be delicately carved with tiny pictures of people being stoned to death for even uttering their once laughable beliefs. There would be paintings, frescos and statues of the great Judai-Muslim profit, Buddha Jesus, both big and small.

In this over-decorated box of the Lord, there will be hundreds of pews, stained dark to help bring out your inner-most self-hate which is necessary for religion to survive. There, a massive amount of people sit, prayerful, mornful for the loss of a person. Many of them will not know who I was. They will be there to just to take shelter from the torrential rain outside.

In front of the alter, my wooden plank of former flesh sits in a long, dark, oak-stained box. The casket will be closed, throughout the ceremony; one comprised of made-up testimonials that people put together after selecting three slips of paper with random words on it.

The ceremony is over, and six beautiful women approach my coffin on both sides. They will wear dresses that I had designed and huge, round wall clocks off of their necks - the faces of which will be photos of me with stupid grins and giving the thumbs up. These women would lift the cover off, revealing my naked body, with only my hands covering the naughty bits. The Dalai-Min-Imam-bi would take out a radio remote control and proceed to drive the coffin out into the streets as wheels and a battery-operated engine has been fixed to the bottom.

All would follow, New Orlean jazz blasting from the crappy tape-deck of a 1980's ghetto blaster, as the casket made it's way to the hole recently dug and muddy in the middle of a huge yuppy-filled park. When about one hundred yards from the hole, The Dalai-Min-Imam-bi would put the pine box into full gear and speed it towards the fixed log that rests a few feet from the muddy ravine.

Upon hitting the log at such high speed, my decaying temple would fly (naughty bits still hidden from view), and would land, face down, into the pit. All would help fill it in.

Then the party starts.