Always a pall-bearer, never a corpse
Every funeral I've ever been to has been horribly depressing, which seems inconsiderate. It is as if the whole procession is the end of a passive-aggressive relationship, in which the other party tries their damnedest to make me break up with them. Yes, I know I didn't answer the last email you ever sent to me, you don't have to lie there and make me think about it while someone with the kind of delusion about her singing ability that can only be bred in a church environment warbles out the last verse of Amazing Grace. It's rude. We didn't come for the karaoke or the poetry reading, and you're not serving any drinks.

Since this awful tradition seems universal, I've taken the liberty of writing out some instructions upon my impending death:

1. If I was eaten by a shark, I demand that the shark be killed and buried, serving as my coffin. This task will be considerably easier if said shark lived at Sea World or an aquarium rather than in the ocean, but do your best (if revenge cannot be had, a reasonably-sized dolphin, buried symbolically, will suffice). In the unlikely event that I was not eaten by a shark, I demand that I be ground into chum and posthumously fed to a shark, which will then be killed and buried.

2. All reminiscences about me should be awkward, embarrassing, or inconclusive. De mortuis nil nisi bonum has no bearing here. An example:

"One time, Zach came home from work and said, 'Goddamn, I'm so tired.' He was always saying 'Goddamn' like it was one word, whenever he would complain. This one's for you, buddy."

The mourner would then down a slug of fine tequila. Here's another example:

"He pooped his pants at an outlet mall in junior high. He was so close to making it to the bathroom, just a few dozen feet, but the mall food won out. He threw away his underwear and was really upset, so I said to him, 'Son, sometimes you find yourself in a bind, and the bind wins.'"

3. If it is deemed legal, I would like my head to be preserved in a jar and placed in my refrigerator. This is to ensure that, even if Lin does remarry, the new guy knows the score.

4. If it is deemed legal, get one of my hands into that jar giving a thumbs up. That way, if Lin remarries, the new guy knows that I think he's alright. Put the other one down the garbage disposal, as I always wanted to know if doing that would break the fingers or cut them off, and I was too nervous to give it a shot while alive. See if an academic journal would supply grant money for this experiment.

5. Please allow any ex-girlfriends or jilted parties ample time to air their grievances, no matter how sexually explicit or inappropriate, both during the service and at the burial site. I am aware that most of my girlfriends do not have any sexually explicit stories about me, as I was a horrible prude, but they may feel free to substitute my name in while airing any other unrelated sexual grievances.

6. Hire a local hardcore or electronica band who is willing to do cover versions of the entire soundtrack of Beaches.

7. Juggling pall bearers.

8. My college suitemate, Julian, who I talked to a half-dozen times and twice let hang out in my room for twenty minutes or so while he was locked out, seemed like a pretty cool guy. See if he has any good stories to tell or is available to do the eulogy. If not, any high school acquaintance who has either had a mildly successful football career or starred on a reality show would be acceptable, as long as everyone was clear on why they were a big deal*.

9. I would like a full-service pasta bar, at least a dozen feet from the rotting shark carcass so as to not seem unappealing.

10. Please bring a blind date if you are single.

I could go on with these instructions ad nauseum, but I think you understand, and I do not want to overburden my lovely wife, who is fully qualified and trustworthy to run the kind of spectacle I so richly deserve.











*with apologies to Nick. The cheap shot is entirely undeserved, and Bravo is the only network where the reality television isn't garbage.