Buried for Less

Wal-Mart sells caskets. At first it seems strange, but upon further reflection it's quite fitting. I think my personal favorite is "Lovely In All Ways". Other than the rotting corpse of course. Bury me with my cold, dead fingers clutching that plastic sack. Also available are Executive Privilege, American Patriot, Regal Wide Body, and Dad Remembered. Dad's death isn't all that inconvenient anymore. Rather than deal with the funeral services assholes, I'll just drive on down to the local friendly Wal-Mart and pick up that casket along with the Puritan dress clothes he'll be buried in, the Great Value hair gel for his still-growing hair, and Ol' Roy dog food to feed his left behind dog. In fact, do they come with wheels? I'd rather just put my groceries in there while I shop rather than try to fit that thing in a shopping cart. Maybe even let junior ride up front. Don't worry Mom, when you kick the bucket, we'll get you Mom Remembered.

I've already discussed my burial plans with my mother. Wrap me in a sheet at least, put me in a wooden box at most, and throw me in the ground and plant a tree over me. No embalming. No make-up. I want to rot and be reduced to the simple elements that compose my complex form. If there's a memorial service, play the Jurassic Park theme and sing karaoke songs that remind you of me.

The one thing I regret about dying is not getting to see my own funeral. Who came? How'd they act? Who didn't come? What's your fucking excuse? That's no excuse! I thought we were friends! I'm glad I'm dead, that way I don't have to put up with your shit anymore. Like my former step-pa said to my mother when she reminded him to do his cancer treatment,"If this is what living is like, I'd rather be dead!"

I don't believe in an after life. People try to use that as a scare tactic. I'm comfortable with dying. Get over it. You're just not that important. Sometimes I look forward to it. Like my grandma said at Christmas 1992,"I'm sick of all this shit!"

My brother was born by Caesarian. It was my mother's first pregnancy. When the doctors had administered her anesthetic they pricked her with a needle and asked if it hurt. Having a high threshold for pain, my mother said no. They commenced with the surgery.
In his first picture with his first child my father is beaming ear to ear. In his first picture with his second child my father has a forced, pained grin.
I hate looking at pictures of aborted fetuses. It chills me. Not because of the abortion, but because the sight of the slimy mini human is frightening. Beady eyes. Red skin. Rounded limbs. It's the fetus that horrifies me, not the procedure.
Trapped in a small space with someone with a nervous tick. "Why do you do that?" "I can't help it." I didn't ask if you could help it. I asked why you do it.
I feel asleep after eating week old turkey. I woke up with the most terrible taste in my mouth. It stuck with me for days.