So my good friend The Alex Peters posted a funny little note on his Facebook page today, outlining what he wants to happen at his funeral. It got me thinking of all the things I've demanded be done with my body throughout the years, many of them extremely ludicrous and bitchin'. And now, with my compliments, enjoy reading about some of the things I want done with my fetid, rotting corpse.
1. I want my final remains to be tossed into an active volcano. Now, let me clarify: I do NOT want to be cremated. I want my whole, unspoiled body (assuming I wasn't mutilated by a panda as a cause of death) tossed into a bubbling, steaming, flaming volcano. Rent a helicopter, steal a plane, grow some wings, I don't care. Just get me up in the air, away from the Sky Police who I assume will exist in the years near my death, and drop me in a giant, naturally formed cauldron of magma.
2. When I die, I want my body put into a mausoleum. Not very interesting, you say? Here's the creepy/cool part: I want the mausoleum to be an exact replica of my living room at the time. I want my couch, my lamps, my recliner, my 6D TV with 12G sound system which I predict will exist upon my demise. I want my body preserved, stuffed and lacquered, positioned on the couch, holding the remote in one hand and a Labatt Strong in the other. I want the TV to cycle through al my favorite shows, so that when people visit me behind the stinkproof glass, they can watch TV with me for eternity.
3. Do it the old fashioned way. Drop me in a coffin and stuff it in the ground, with one little difference: the coffin is made of balsa wood and buried very shallow. This way, when the inevitable zombie apocalypse comes around, and the dead start to rise, it's easy for me to climb out and and eat me some brains as quickly as possible. I don't want to be the last zombie to get a taste of those sweet, sweet brains because someone locked me in an oak vault ten feet below the surface. Hook a zombie brother up, and maybe I'll retain enough knowledge of my former life that, while I'll still probably eat you, I might at least think twice about it.
4. Strap me to a rocket ship, shoot me into space. This needs no embellishmet. Me and Gene Roddenberry will hang out, if Urban Legends turn out to be true. Points scored.
5. Finally, we come to my most sinister of post-earthly plans. I have been plotting this for eons, or more accurately, supereons, a term I just coined. I want my body cremated, and the ashes ground into a fine powder afterwards. Then, I want my remains split up amongst my nearest and dearest. Sweet right? They all get a piece of Mark to cherish forever. Not so fast, Cherishers! My remains are not to be hugged, coddled, fondled, loved, loathed, or any other verbed. I want these little baggies (I will be distributed in baggies furnished by the good people at Glad) of my remains taken to the finest restaurants in the all the world. I want you to order the finest meal you can imagine (a discretionary budget will be furnished by the fine people at Glad). And when the meal is done, and your bellies are full of lobsters stuffed with tacos, I want you to open the nearest pepper shaker, and deposit my ashes within. I want the the cultural elite of the world to sprinkle me on their eggs, their steaks, their soups and their salads. Of all things, this is what I want most: for rich assholes to have to digest my crispy, smoky, slightly mesquite-flavored (again, provided by Glad) remains. For when they do, my spirit will visit a bowel reeking vengeance the likes of which the world has never seen. Eat me, America. Eat me and I will haunt your duodenum.
And now, my song of the day:
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