Now, there's no way I'm making it to 96. We know this. But, if by some freak of nature I DO make it that far, I feel like there's no way in HELL I'm not hanging in there for the big 1-0-0 (coffee table idea: people who died one day before turning 100!)
Hell, if I make it that close, I'm demanding Op pulls a Weekend at Bernies with me, and keeps me in a meat locker with sunglasses on long enough to cross that finish line. I know he's got enough to do during the single greatest funeral of all time, but camon.
7) I am currently preparing another website devoted to my incredibly elaborate, almost unbearable-for-those-who-loved-me 14-hour funeral service. Included will be my list of song choices (“The Cuts”) and some skits I will have prepared (“The Skits”)acting out various scenes from my life. I do feel bad for my buddy Op, upon whom I have placed the most chores on that darkest of days (no, I’m not calling it a fucking “celebration” – anyone there “celebrating” instead of being physically overcome with grief over my passing will be dealt with by Op. I’m putting it in black and white right here: not now, nor will I ever proclaim that I want people having a good time at my funeral. Therefore the first fuckwad that says “Hey, Xmastime would want us to have fun” gets a boot heel to the throat. This I promise.), including jobs like making sure all my past lovers are seated together so that they can try to out-grieve each other and scoring the “What Xmastime Meant to Me” essays. So be on the lookout for this site in the near future. Also, I’m putting this down in black & white too: not now, nor will I ever proclaim that I want my wife to get remarried. If she starts throwing out that garbage “Oh Xmastime would want me to move on and be happy” SHE’S LYING!! DON’T BELIEVE HER!!! I’m looking to assign someone the job of making sure she visits the cemetery at least once a week and hurls herself on my grave wailing uncontrollably for an hour or so. Let me know who’s up for that one.
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