One day a couple of weeks ago I was texting with The Muse and the conversation appeared to be winding down. I distinctly remember the ending, because as soon as the texts were done, I immediately came here and typed them into a draft, which eventually became this blog post. What was said that I felt needed to be shared with you all? Take a look.
HER: I swear to God I’m putting that on your tombstone when you die.
HER: You’re an idiot.
That got me to thinking, which can be a dangerous thing. In 80 days I will officially be on the upward half of my 40’s, which means putting together a bucket list isn’t such a bad idea. Especially considering I had a heart attack earlier this year. In my mind, bucket lists are for geezers like Walter Matthau and Jack Lemon, not for people like me. I’m too cool for a bucket list, so I decided to write about things (and people) I’d like to accomplish and things I’d like to see happen, “When I finally kick it.”
The first thing we need to do is plan my funeral. I absolutely want to be cremated. But only after science and medicine take whatever the hell they may want. If I can hook a brother or a sister up, I absolutely will.
At this point I think I should tell you that some of these ideas I did get from comedian Christopher Titus. Although, I did put my creative spin on things. I also deleted a few of his suggestions, such as “Taking the ashes, putting them in a douche bottle and running me through a hooker one more time.” The next time with a hooker will be my first, thank you very much.
The theme of my service will be, “Ladies Night.” Yes, that means there will be a cover for the dudes, but I hope people would be willing to shell out a couple of bucks to either mourn my loss or to have a great story to tell his hater buddies. I will have a very short guest list, and it’s totally gonna be VIP. People like Samuel L. Jackson, Gretzky and Hef are gonna be on the list. Drama Queen too. And the Kings fan. And Josh. Their wives get in free.
There will be an open casket. Yes I know that I’m likely to be all dissected and shit, but I have a plan. If they have to cut my skull open, I wear a beanie. If they take an eye, I wear my wrap-around Ray Bans. You get the picture. If they take a hand I’m torn between shoving the stump in my pants like I’m scratching my balls or behind me, like I’m removing a wedgie. Your thoughts?
I don’t want it to be a sad occasion, so I may have a DJ cranking Foo Fighters, Papa Roach and Disturbed. If I was murdered and the killer hadn’t been caught, they could totally play, Getting Away With Murder as the festivities got underway. I want it to be a fun occasion.
I want a cash bar in the back. And maybe one on the patio. There will be a couple big screens on the patio, not because I’m expecting an overflow, but because I want people to be able to chill outside and smoke if they like. And the bar outside is because the people smoking the cancer sticks aren’t gonna want to go inside to get a drink, then come back out and fire up again. They want to keep the nicotine flowing. It’s my way of thanking the smokers for coming out to my last hurrah.
I don’t want there to be a eulogy. No fucking way. Instead, I want people to tell stories. Real stories. Ones that begin with, “Holy crap. I remember when…” or, “I swear to God. This really happened.” That’s how the best stories start.
When the Reverend is ready to get the show going, he can flash the lights a couple of times to let everyone know to either take their seats or find a good place at the bar. After he gives them about 90 seconds to sit, he will cue the DJ to play Walk by Foo Fighters. I want him to play the version I’m including at the end of the post. Why this song? Because even from the other side, I’ll still do my best to hook you up with a smile once in a while. Most of you. For the record, my two choices would be either Rev. Brian Mott (a high school friend) or Rev. Tyler Daniels (a college friend) to emcee the festivities.
As the music ends, I want there to be a recording of me from the radio saying, “What is up Long Beach?” It’s how I open my radio show, so it’s how I want to open my final remote. Then I think we should play like a five minute montage of some of my better moments with my co-host Wes The Sports Guy and my former co-hosts, Megan, Niya and Nathan.
For those that don’t know (or for those who give a shit), Niya, Nathan and the very funny show we did together, are the inspiration for a large part of my first novel. Store that last bit under, “Useless Trivia”.
After the service you can toss me in the furnace and cook me til I’m nothing but a pile of ashes. I’m not sure what I want to happen to my ashes, but I know what I DONT want to have happen to them. Rewind about 16 years to when my grandmother moved into a nursing home. My mom went to her apartment in Leisure World and was cleaning it out.
I don’t remember who was with my mom at the time, but I think it was my dad. My mom was going through her mom’s bedroom closet, when she opened a shoebox. She stared at the contents for a moment, then proclaimed, “I think I found my dad.” Yeah, grandma kept grandpa’s ashes in a shoe box in the closet. Does anyone else find that kinda cool, yet at the same time, a bit creepy?
So that’s the funeral, or as I like to call it, the J.R. Farewell Show. Or even better, Peace Out. Yeah. I like that. Someone make a note of that. Just in case you need it. Now lets take a look at what I want to do before I finally kick it.
I think I’ve got the same type of basics that any other guy does. Hockey is my thing, so I want to see hockey at some Original Six arenas. And I want to see the Raiders win another Super Bowl. Which, BTW, won’t happen as long as that senile geezer Al Davis is still alive. I’m just saying. And there are other things I’d like to do.
You know what would be cool? To jump up on stage at some big-ass arena like Staples Center or Madison Square Garden with Nickleback (seriously) as they sang Figured you Out. Yeah, I know, Nickleback is a bit cheesy and easy to make fun of–and not just because they’re Canadian, eh. I wanna get up there just so I can rock the mic and sing these words.
I like your pants around your feet
And I like the dirt that’s on your knees
And I love your lack of self-respect
While you passed out on the deck
Because, really, isn’t that what life’s all about? Plus, in my dream, the chicks all go crazy for me and shit. But only in my dreams.
I’d also like to see my first book get made into a movie. Of course, I need to finish said book in about three weeks so my agent can get the finished copy to the publisher. Did I ever tell you what they said? Their marketing people said it’s like, “Dave Barry with an edge”. I thought that was kind of interesting, since I’d never looked at it that way. I still don’t, but who gives a shit? They like it and that’s all that counts.
Before I go, I seriously want to spend a night with Selma Hayek in some crazy-fancy suite at some Vegas mega casino and get with her from dusk til dawn. Jenny McCarthy too. Not necessarily at the same time, though I wouldn’t say, “No” if the situation ever presented itself. Which it won’t. But if it did, I would totally go for it.
Go ahead and call me a pig if you like, but the reality is that every straight guy would absolutely back me up on the Salma thing. A lot of chicks would too. And I’m way cool with that. Seriously.
All this would be totally awesome to do, but the reality is that as long as my (teenage) Drama Queen grows up to be happy, healthy and successful, I will die happy-ish. The other stuff is the icing, but my daughter ‘s ability to contribute to society, is the cake.
The Salma-Jenny-three way thing is a close second, but definitely not my main priority. I could make a joke about the whole cake-eat-icing-hot celebrity chicks thing, but out of respect for any new readers, I will refrain. You’re welcome.
BTW…TheParentduJour.com is rewarding me with some bitchin parent kinda thing. Thanks, yo. CHECK IT OUT.
As you watch this, try to picture it as like a last message from the recently departed.