Not long ago, the husband of one of my co-workers died suddenly. He was only a few years older than me. He was out jogging.
Holy shit. My knees won’t let me “jog”, and he looked about 5 years younger than me. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m still here.
His funeral was the first time I could really picture myself being the one set in the front of the room as the “main attraction”. (Yes, that’s a horrible euphemism, but fuck you – you come up with a better one.)
He was still teaching middle school, so his family, the other teachers and some of his students all stood up to speak. They sang songs and said wonderful things about his humor, his kindness, his love of life and people.
None of that shit could ever be said about me. Read this blog for 20-minutes. You will not find kindness nor love. Nobody would describe this sense of humor as “wonderful.” (Hyperbolic, cynical and depressing — sure. Wonderful? No.) And this blog may be bullshit, but it’s pretty close to the “real” me.
As for my views on people? We have too many fucking people. I’m not suggesting a purge. But free condoms on every corner and birth-control for all is definitely the way to go.
And we shouldn’t be too afraid of letting a little Darwinism cull the herd. You know, if you don’t wear a helmet on a motorcycle or bike, we won’t bother to save you after the crash. Just hook you to a ventilator long enough to harvest your usable organs (brain not included because it was obviously defective — dumbass).
One draw back of being an atheist (ranting down the path toward being an anti-theist): at the funeral, no one can cover up your lack of caring or personality with some shitty story written in 17th Century English about forgiveness and passing eternity sitting on a cloud with a harp. The mourners are left with just talking about you…
I thought about writing my own eulogy, but that’s a fucking stupid idea. Eulogies are for the living. We don’t need some selfish bastard telling us what to think after he’s gone.
“I’ve written down what I want you to say about me.” What a prick!
Instead I’m going to suggest something far worse.
Everyone who attends my funeral should have to read aloud a short segment of one of these Bullshit blogs.
That’s right. If I don’t outlive these bastards:
- Pussy Joe should have to read about not finishing that fucking cookie
- Larry should read about his beloved. (No, not his wife or crazing fucking cat). It’s his fermentor for fuck’s sake
- Gibson will have to say out loud that he is a California-tripping pansy
- And Jesus (no, not that Jesus) will have to read the analogy of him as a rickety table next to the shitter.
Who knows, we might even get Traitor McGee to tell the crowd he has the outward personality of a crustacean.
The only exception would be for the Boy and the Bear. This blog has a lot of bullshit in it, but just about everything I typed about them shouldn’t be repeated in public.
But the rest of you fuckers better start picking out a personal quotation or two (no fucking repeats, read a unique blog you lazy piece of shit). At least you won’t have to make up some bullshit story for My Eulogy. I’ve already done the work for you.
Image stolen from: https://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/f/funeral_speech.asp
Update: July 12, 2018
No, I’m not fucking dying (at least any sooner than the rest of you). So stop asking. It’s a bullshit blog not a subtle message blog to let my 3 readers know that something may be amiss. You don’t have to add your own bullshit rumors to my bullshit rumors.
And by the way, if I get some crappy diagnosis, I’m not letting you fuckers know on a bullshit blog. I’ll break the news like my ancestors have for generations — after the 5th round of booze I’ll start crying and confessing. If I’m the one dying — when the tab comes, you better be the one paying.