By: Ann Brown
I’ve been worrying about death again.
Months (well, weeks…well, days) have gone by without my usual daily keening and moaning and hand-wringing that Death is just around the corner. I really don’t know why my brain finally took a respite from it, although now that I think about it, maybe it’s because Death really is around the corner this time.
Fuck. I’m dead if I worry; dead if I don’t.
And yes, I have been taking my Prozac, why do you ask?
What got me going this time was a conversation I had with a few friends after services last night. I was regaling them with the story about Robin’s mom almost being buried with no pants (remember that post? “Mama kent fly to Heaven vit no pents!”) and soliciting their promises that when I die, someone will check to make sure I am properly dressed before I am on my way to Eternity because I kent fly to Heaven vit no pents, either. Especially since, the way our financial situation is going, I am definitely gonna be flying Coach. And back in the cheap seats I bet they are going to be really strict with a dress code. Isn’t that the way it always goes? Punish the working class. And I bet we don’t even get food, not even that Lilliputian-size bag of knock-off Chex mix, while up in Business and First Class to Heaven, they are running around willy-nilly with no pants, jumping on the seats, eating beluga and watching unaired episodes of “30 Rock”.
And you just know it’s gonna be the rich Republicans and the banksters who can afford First Class. Well, at least they’ll have to watch “30 Rock” and know that Alec Baldwin is a bigass Democrat getting rich on his successful show. HAH.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is the best I can do in my revenge fantasy against Republicans? Baldwin is getting rich? AAAAIIEEE. I gotta bitch slap someone. Quick! Bring me Bachman. Or Scott Walker. Any of them, really. I got an itchy open palm.
Wait, where was I again? Right. Death.
As you may recall, I relieved Robin of the “making sure I am wearing pants when I die” task the day he spent more than ten minutes wondering if it was worth it to brave the rush hour traffic on the Arroyo Seco Parkway just to run back and get a pair of pants in which to dress his mother in her coffin. This is not a person I want making my fashion decisions when my time has come.
We argued about it for a short while and I finally got Robin to agree to put pants on me. But only if he can leave my top off.
“I am proud of your boobs,” he said, as if that would sway me. “I’m gonna stand next to your open casket and when my friends file by to view you, they will high-five me and they will say, “Duuuude. Your wife has really big boobs! Way to be, bro!”
It’s a little unsettling that this is how Robin imagines my funeral but who am I to judge fantasies? I am obsessed with slapping Republicans.
And anyway, I’m going to be cremated.