Don’t you hate it when that happens? – A funeral comedy.
Well I was riding my bike to town and got a flat tire. Don’t you just hate it
when that happens? I always carry a spare and just about had it fixed. I bent
over to disconnect the pump at there was a sudden crack of to one side and I
felt the bullet shatter the back of my head. Now I really hate getting shot
while riding my bike. Don’t you? I suppose wearing my brown jacket and bike
pants with the white butt patch during hunting season wasn’t such a good idea.
Well that gave me a whopper of a headache, but it didn’t last long because I
died pretty quick. Now I really hate it when that happens, but at least the
headache went away.
So they rushed me off to the hospital, and being as I’m an organ donor they cut
out most of my insides as soon as they were sure I was dead. But they couldn’t
use my liver because the surgeon dropped in the floor. Yes I know. Livers are
slippery, but still I really hate it when people drop them. It makes such a
mess. On the good side the surgeon managed to hang on to my left kidney even
when he slipped on the liver mess. He also didn’t leave his watch in my belly,
though they did leave a few surgical sponges behind. The last time someone left
his watch in my belly it kept me awake for months with its ticking until the
battery finally went dead, so I really hate it when that happens; Not that being
kept awake is a big issue right now, but still...
Anyway, they sewed me back together and shipped me down to the morgue. Now the
attendant there had just gotten caught fucking the corpses again and had been
given his walking papers, which pissed him off I guess, so he purposely switched
my toe tag with a 89 year old woman who had died of a stroke the day before. Now
I really get ticked at this. That is, getting toe tags switched, not getting
fucked by morgue attendants or getting caught at it, well, I do hate that too,
fucked I mean, not caught, well maybe caught too, … I don’t know.. Does this
make any sense? And why am I asking you? You’re sitting here listening to the
ranting of a talking corpse, which doesn’t suggest you have all your marbles
intact, does it now? Anyway, I got shipped off to the wrong funeral home. Don’t
you hate it when that happens?
At the mortuary, they unloaded me into the preparation room, and proceeded to
embalm me. Now if anyone noticed I did not look like 89-year-old Aunt Ida, they
didn’t say anything. They stuffed me full of padding, and put packing in my
mouth and vagina. I really hate having that done, don’t you? But who is going to
listen to the complaints of a corpse? Someone screwed up the embalming fluid
formula so I came out looking slightly green. Then they dressed me in the most
awful blue dress with garish pink flowers. If this was one of Aunt Ida’s
favorites she really had poor taste. They had to use a ton of make-up on me to
mask the effects of discolored embalming fluid. Then they put me in a cheap
casket of cloth-covered fiberboard. I sort of felt sorry for Ida, who ever she
was, because who ever was in charge obviously did not think it worth spending
much on her funeral.
At the wake, the mortician got all kinds of compliments on how youthful he had
made Ida appear. But then some smart aleck kid was brave enough so say what
everyone else was afraid to: “That’s not Aunt Ida!!!” Well, I do hate mouthy
kids, who think they know it all, but I was glad to be recognized at last. The
mortician was suitably embarrassed. It took a little time, but they did
eventually track down the real Ida and got me to the right funeral home.
They did have a nicer dress for me there: A white satin gown sort of like an
informal wedding dress. It was fine except that they were rushed by then to get
me ready for my own wake. The guy arranging me was eating lunch at the time. Can
you believe it? KETCHUP on a Ruben’s sandwich!!! I just hate being around people
with such poor taste in food. Don’t you? And if that wasn’t bad enough he got
ketchup stains on my dress!! A few well-placed flowers managed to hide the worst
of them. So I guess I looked ok. At least everyone said so. I had a nicer casket
too. Which is good cause I really hate getting buried in cheap caskets.
Things went along ok then. The funeral home didn’t burn down overnight with me
in it or anything, and they managed to get me to the church in time for the
funeral in spite of a flat tire on the hearse. And there was only a minor mishap
at the cemetery. (My best friend Kathy, who is allergic to bees, was one of my
pallbearers. She got stung by a bee that was attracted to the flowers on my
casket, went into shock and died on the spot. Don’t you just hate having your
pallbearer drop dead? I know I do. This would not have been so bad, except she
dropped her corner of the casket when she died, which was very inconsiderate I
thought). Well anyway. I’m buried now and only a little disheveled from being
dropped. I hope things go better for Kathy. I hope they put up a nice white
stone over my grave, because otherwise the bird poop will leave spots, and I
hate it when that happens.
Casketgal (2003).