I’m not one of those morbid emo bloggers who obsess about death all the time and post all my dark musings into a secret Livejournal that no one reads except some goth chick I met at a rave this one time, but I have occasionally thought about what I’d like to happen to my body when I do finally toddle my way off this mortal coil. For me, the problem with most modern funeral options is a severe lack of style or panache. I could cremate my remains and spread them across a place that’s important to me, but the people at Denny’s said no. How about having my organs removed and my body pumped full of embalming chemicals so the few remaining people in the world who actually like me can stand crying over a wax figure version of myself that makes me look like David Gest? Appealing, but so very unoriginal. Until today, I was planning to go with the only funeral procedure that made any sense to me: setting my remains and all worldly possessions adrift into the sea, then shooting this Viking vessel with a flaming arrow while someone blasts Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin” through a boombox. But thanks to an American hero by the name of Bill Bramanti (who shall henceforth forever be known reverently as “Bill Brah”), this will no longer be necessary, as I can now lay myself to rest in the way I – and all alcoholics – have always wanted: in a coffin that looks like a giant can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Hell, I’m practically looking forward to dying now.
