Don’t prop me up beside no stinking jukebox

As I was listening to Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes earlier today, I got to thinking about how I’d like for that song to be played at my funeral.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it that much. I mean, I’d be dead. And everything.

Then that got me thinking about funerals.

You know how people always say, “When I die, I don’t want anyone to be sad. I don’t want a funeral, I just want everyone to have a freakin’ PARTY!”

Well, you know what?

When I die?

I WANT PEOPLE TO BE SAD, DAMN IT.

I want my friends and family to bawl their freaking eyes out. You know, the ugly cry. Punctuated with howls and snot bubbles. I’m talking totally devastated, can’t-live-their-lives-any-longer-without-the-sheer-awesomeness-that-was-LRC, suicidal states of mind.

Well, maybe not suicidal.

But would a little moderate to severe depression be too much to ask?

I didn’t think so.

When I die?

YOU BETTER NOT THROW ANY FUCKING PARTIES.

I MEAN IT.

YOU BETTER CRY, GOD DAMN YOU.

MOURN THIS GREAT LOSS, MOTHERFUCKER. SHOW SOME RESPECT FOR THE DEAD AND PUT DOWN THAT MILLER LITE.

Unless you’re drinking your sorrows away.*

Then that’s okay.

Does this make me a bad person?

Obviously not, because there’s gonna be a lot of sad, crying faces at my funeral.

And you don’t cry for someone who’s a bad person.

You just don’t.

*which is what I do every weekend