Thinking outside the box
One of the few things that really pisses me off about getting older is that there are fewer invites.
There was a time when my calendar would be full of invites to birthday parties, weddings and various other occasions for celebration.
Nowadays all I get is fucking funerals.
I’m not much of a party animal anyway, but that’s beside the point. The point is that funerals are so fucking depressing. Unless there is a really decent wake involved, they are dry sober affairs that do little except remind me that I am that bit closer to my own.
Personally, I’m not bothered whether I have a funeral or not. They can fuck me into the sea for all I care. In fact, I rather fancy a Viking funeral where they float me out to sea and then fire flaming arrows until I burn and sink. I would rather they wait until I’m dead first, but you get the idea.
A couple of years ago, I actually gad to buy myself a suit. I fucking hate suits, and especially ties, but I was attending so many funerals, and the old jeans and sweater were beginning to attract attention. Yet another reason to hate funerals.
The one and only good reason to attend funerals is that I can look at the box and be glad I’m not in it.
You’re a “glass half-empty” kind of guy, aren’t you?
My personal motto is “Roll on death so I can have a lie in”.
Of course, being buried at sea fucks up all those wankers who swore to dance on your grave….
I think I would take several thousand down to Davy Jones’ locker with me. Hopefully they will all be either politicians or “Outreach Workers For One-eyed Crippled Lesbian Jews With Islamic Tendencies”.
I can hope.
Three last week. Is that a record?
Ranty – I wouldn’t call myself a glass half empty or glass half full type of person. When the liquid reaches that level, I’m more a “whose round is it?” kind of person.
TT – Shit! Have you got something contagious?!
I am so cranky I won’t even go to those damn things-furneals, that is. Ala Liz Taylor, I want to be 15 minutes late to my own cremation.
A friend that was like a father to me had a rule for his wake. You had to drink to be there. There was a keg and a barkeep at the front entrance. We all had a blast talking over good times. That’s the way ti should be! 🙂
How about the Celebration of Life ceremonies? People do the talking which saves cost of a minister. Fuckin’ (good word, heh)) NICE things have to be said about the person in the box. Sometimes it’s hard to think of anything.
Wakes are yer only man. Lock the ‘guests’ in a room with a couple of crates of whiskey and leave ’em there ’til they have all passed out. Great craic.
Neat title Grandad. I had no idea what was coming… I see why you have all those blog awards in your side bar – You definitely have a way with words! (That was a compliment in case you missed it).
Thanks Denise! *wanders off trying to hide his blushes*