So, how do you want to go … after you’re gone? You know, post-croak. Past your “best-if-used-before” date. Nod off for The Big Sleep. Cash out in the final checkout line. Exit, stage life.
“I don’t want to be buried,” my wife told me a while back when the subject came up. “I don’t want to be in the ground. That’s too creepy and gross.”
“Me neither,” said I.
“So you want to be cremated too?”
“Nope. I want to be stuffed.”
“Stuffed? Like a raccoon or a bear?”
“Ayup. Have me stuffed standing up, with a big friendly smile on my face.”
“Anything else?”
“Just a couple more wishes. Plant me standing up in the front yard, by the side of the road with one arm up in the air. Maybe with a little motor in it so it waves it back and forth to the cars going by the house. In fact, maybe pull out the mailbox and put me there. You could attach the box to me and then put my other arm to good use.”
“I’m afraid to ask, but I must – for what?”
“Arm up – and the mailman knows there’s outgoing mail in the box. Think of that. I’d not only be decorative, but practical too. Perfect.”
“Really, that’s disgusting.”
“I suppose discussing Christmas lights would be over the top then …”
Now, before you write off my last request as just another goofy thing only my mind is capable of concocting, think again. I’m not the only one out there. And I know this because some pretty odd final requests … have been granted.
And in this corner …
Riding off into the cemetery …
Now, about those Christmas lights …