I’m dead as fried chicken. You’re faced with the task of burying me. Let’s not pretend you guys are okay with all of this. We all tolerated each other when I was alive. Let’s not be phony in the wake of death.
We’re not Irish, not even on March 17th. But I want you to treat the half a Saturday you’re giving up because you think you have to, by drinking, eating, and sending my dead ass off, the right way.
Go rent out an Applebees or some bar-b-q joint or some place where people will get some decent food. Don’t get the expensive casket. Go cheap, because I don’t care and I have to be dead in it forever. The cash you save on that pour into the party. I expect a handful of nice things said, because I wasn’t a complete asshole. Then, tell the truth. Talk about how crazy I was. Talk about my obnoxious music snobbery. Most of all talk about how my low self esteem and crippling anxiety disorder made me a hell of a smart ass and a decent writer.
Play great music. I want Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve and Ball and Chain by Social Distortion played during the ceremony. At the party Nickelback, Journey, Creed, The Eagles, Coldplay, and Kid Rock are banned. Show some damn respect.
I hated flowers. Don’t buy any. The money you save on those, buy a water slide or bounce house or something completely stupid and inappropriate for the kids to play in while the grown up get sloppy drunk. Then, with whatever money is left, buy cabs for everyone to get home. I’m not ready to hang out in eternity with any of you, yet.
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