Funeral Day

Sully brings up the point that funerals are for the living:

It is this line of thinking which leads me to the final instruction for my funeral: no matter what happens, no matter how badly it goes, don’t sweat it too much. Life is so full of serious, so full of tribulation; death seems like a great opportunity to have a no-pressure gathering of friends and family.

Of course as you already know I've been planning mine for years:

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.

Also, don't let Dave forget the up and down tease as they lower and raise my casket into the grave to Sugar Sugar; or that just when people think they can no longer squeeze out another tear, from off past the horizon, past a hill, they barely hear the strains of something they gradually begin to pick up as the horrible minutes pass, until they realize it's Op blowing sadly on a tuba, walking over that hill and slowly making it to the grave, emotion therein unrestrained among those grieving who haven't required medical assistance/hydration yet.

I'm assuming it's perfectly normal to put way more thought into one's death than life.