You are never more popular than you are when you die. You get more flowers, more visitors, and more nice things said about you at one time than in your entire life combined. No matter how much of a dirt bag you were, people will stay up for hours, writing a eulogy where they try to find something nice to say about you.
God damn it, I can’t wait! I have an outfit picked out and everything! The only thing that sucks is I won’t be alive to enjoy it.
I can only imagine the crazy shit people would come up with in order to make me sound like a good person.
- Essa had a real thirst for life! (technically true, when you consider my drinking problem)
- Essa was really consistent at being inconsistent.
- Essa had great oral hygiene and flossed regularly.
People will come up with something nice to say, because it most cases, death makes you a saint.
I used to live in a small town in Maine, near Bowdoin College. While I was there, there was a homeless man that everyone called ‘CatDog”. CatDog was well into his 60s, most likely mentally ill, and had some serious drug problems.
Then CatDog died. Suddenly, CatDog was the wisest man who ever existed. He wasn’t a homeless man; he was a ‘street philosopher’. He didn’t sleep in an alley because he was addicted to huffing paint. He slept in the alley because of his ‘minimalist beliefs’. CatDog was no longer the homeless man everyone avoided. He was wise. Newspapers wrote extensive profiles on him, going into his life in detail and talking about how he’d managed to ‘survive 40 years on the streets’.
He lived so long because he was in Brunswick fucking Maine. The biggest daily danger he faced was getting patronized to death by some Liberal Arts white kid with dreadlocks.
They said all these wonderful things about this guy, with no irony at all, despite how he died. As I recall, his death was a result of passing out in a plastic bag filled with paint. When he was found, his pants were down around his ankles and he was in viewing distance of a grade school.
To me, that’s the exact opposite of wisdom. You know who never gets hired as a life coach? The guy with an addiction to paint huffing and kid diddling.
If death made CatDog a saint, imagine what it’s going to do for me! So, I’ve wanted to let you all know that I’ve decided to do something special. You know how some chicks get sick of waiting to get married and marry themselves? Well, I’m sick of waiting to get buried so I’m going to bury myself.
I present to you the Essa Alroc Pre Mortem Funeral
The itinerary is as follows. You will arrive at the funeral home. I will arrive by a horse drawn hearse in a silk lined casket made of glass so everyone can admire how pretty I am. Then, I will take a nap while every takes turns saying nice things about me and giving me flowers. I will be taken back to the hearse and we will begin the procession to the graveyard. We will take the long route, stopping as much traffic as possible along the way. We will arrive at the cemetery.
Then, as I believe the Catholic Church requires, we will all do the chicken dance. I will be brought into a Mausoleum that is a large scale replica of my face. You will all go home. Well, except one of you.
I’m gonna need someone to let me out of the Mausoleum.
Donations can be made directly to me, because it is going to be expensive as hell to pay for all this shit.