Last Call

Death be not proud

As I get older, the Grim Reaper draws ever nearer. I’m not mad about it; he comes for us all, in the end. (Insert butt joke here.)

What I *am* mad about, however, are all the idiots who survive us. Those jokers suddenly get it into their heads all sorts of notions about us (the deceased) and them (the living) that evade the upper parameters of reason and logic.

Let me explain.

My mother died a few decades back, give or take. She wasn’t a saint; far from it. She became an adult during the Flower Power era, the Vietnam War, and Watergate. Thus, she was disillusioned of this America (rightly so) and turned toward “alternative” methods of coping. She purportedly learned her famous chili recipe while incarcerated in a Mexican jail. She once let me drink mushroom juice with a bunch of her hippie friends. Her moods swung from joyous to outrage in the blink of an eye, before we really knew what “bipolar” meant. I can’t blame her now, though I certainly did when I was an adolescent.

Smash cut to her funeral. Everyone is there, all her brothers and sisters, her mother (my grandmother), me, my brother and various other friends. There was also a priest, presiding over the festivities. I got up and shakily said a few things that I felt were accurate, realistic and pertinent. Not a dry eye in the house. I took my seat in the pews, wiping my own eyes, as I realized all my fantasies of spending more time with my mom were dust in the wind.

Then shit got *weird*.

People mounted the dais and began to speak about my mother as if she were a god-fearing, regularly-praying, good citizen of the Earth and friend to any squirrel who might cross her path. She was an angel, sent from God, spreading His word amongst the faithful. She was light! She was holy to the core! Hallelujer!

My mouth dropped open, as I stared at these people telling these lies about the lady who gave birth to me. I looked around at other mourners; a few of them returned my confused visage with equal WTF writ large on their features. Some of us didn’t understand what was going on. The rest of the group had already crossed the line from reality into a fantasyland of wish fulfillment.

Look, I get it. We want to remember the dead in a good light, not the way they *really* were, with all their human foibles and blunders. The way they might throw an ashtray at your head for no discernible reason. How they drank away the family savings even as the electricity was cut off for non-payment. Who wants to recall (or be reminded of) all those nasty facts? Not me, sister.

So, when it’s my time to shuffle off this mortal coil, I have some bullet points for you to read at my memorial:

• “Jeremy, dog bless his soul, liked cats. Unnaturally so. Immorally so. I can’t say any more than that, at least not until the rights clear on the video series he directed, acted in and distributed illegally.”

• “What can we say about Jeremy’s prowess on the badminton court? He did love a good shuttlecock.”

• “Many people wish they could eat a moon-sized wheel of cheese, but Jeremy found a way to actually do it. Of course, it was the *last* thing he ever did, but—by dog!—his name will live on in the Guinness Book of World Records. Incidentally, he washed down that moon-sized wheel of cheese with a Guinness, and that’s what killed him. Srirosis.”

• “Thank dog, he’s finally dead. Now I can beat his high score in Galaga. Excelsior!”