Have you ever wondered what goes on in the head of mourners while attending the funeral service of a beloved one, especially if the beloved one wasn’t so being loved at all?
It was only a few days after that old fart – my dad that is – passed away and Ellen, his wife reminded me about the memorial service. As if I would need a reminder – this whole event required a major logistical effort.
When I arrived at the funeral home, our Web server was ready for the live streaming, and my buddy Billy Bob approached me for last directions on the Twitter feed. Lisa, my sister was already sitting in the first row, leaning over the seat, waving at everybody she knew and talking simultaneously on the phone.
My brother Greg was sitting next to her, writing some blog entries with first impressions that also would feed the Facebook page. Over half of our town’s population must be followers, probably because they were curious if the eulogies would be white washing.
Entering my step-mom, dressed in a black suit that leaves little to imagination with an extravagant hat and a veil that barely covers all the makeup she used. She’s leaning heavily on Henry, my old man’s best friend and giving her best performance ever as the grieving widow.
I’ll watch the funeral later on tape since I’ll be too busy to coordinate all the live covering behind the scenes. Hopefully he left me some substantial money to produce my own reality show. I just developed the concept – “From Within the Casket” – and I’m negotiating with ABC to buy the first 10 episodes.
Nothing could have been more inconvenient than the passing of him. Instead of sitting in the plane to go on a Norwegian cruise, I’m now walking to my seat in the first row in this battered funeral home, playing the grieving widow. Henry hasn’t touched me since the call came from the hospital – sometimes he is too much of a gentleman. Those past few days have left some marks on me – I had to schedule and reschedule appointments with the hairdresser and the spa, my personal trainer, my life-coach, my counselor, and my yoga-instructor. I bought a black suit but it wasn’t showing enough cleavage and needed some altering. George would probably rotate in this ridiculous casket if he knew how much money I spent on this outfit. I hope it works on Henry.
This is so typical for George to have only a memorial service and no reception or anything after the service. On the other hand, who would bother to stay and mourn the passing of the cheap fart? And then his children – all three of them spoiled brats and just waiting for their share of his money. Ah, they are already gathered in the first row. First I didn’t like the idea of the videotaping and streaming, but then it occurred to me that this could be THE chance for a comeback in “Dancing with the Stars”. And the best of all, Henry will be George’s successor at the board of directors. I’m wondering if we need to wait four weeks or six weeks before we can get married?
I don’t know what they told you about heaven, but let me tell you – all of it isn’t the least of what I expected. When I arrived here I was greeted by ol’ St. Peter – looks a bit like Morgan Freeman if you ask me. He gave me two choices: settling down on a cloud and don’t worry and be happy for eternity or living in a luxurious apartment with two bunny angels, some century old delicious Scotch and Cuban cigars under the condition that I would have to watch my memorial service every day for eternity. That’s a no brainer – I can’t get tired of watching my trophy wife giving her best performance as the grieving widow, waiting to get screwed by my best friend and business associate Henry.
Well, I didn’t know this until the doctors were telling me that I only had a few more weeks to live. But I had had a hunch and started immediately to arrange my affairs. My suspicion that my so loving wife Ellen wasn’t so loving anymore – if she ever was – was confirmed by a PI.
I knew that I would upset Ellen by having a memorial service in a scruffy funeral home. But this was just the beginning. I changed my last will and disinherited Ellen and my ill-bred children. Too bad I can’t see the look on their face when they get home after this farce is over and find all their personal belongings packed into a truck and the locks of the house exchanged.
And Henry, my dear old friend Henry, who was thinking lately too much with his dick. I found a much better replacement for him. St. Peter still owes me a favor for calling me up here two days too early. I’ll ask him for me to watch when Henry gets back to the office building. His ID badge won’t work anymore and he’ll need to collect his belongings at the curb.