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One last fling

Organ donor. The option is right there on my driver's license. I'd love to donate an organ. If only I had one. My ceilings are too low for all those pipes.

So I phoned the nice folks at the State Motor Vehicle place to ask about other instruments. A nasal voice droned that only organs may be donated and - get this - you need to be dead! Silly government workers crack me up.

Speaking of death, funerals are sad events to plan or attend. But one service during which we won't cry is our own.

In my case, a few mourners may sniffle, nit-pick about how good the makeup job is, and saunter out to a catered lunch. Dang, I hate to miss a meal. The first draft of "My Favorite Things" (nixed by Julie Andrews) sums up my plans.

Pearly white caskets with blue satin sashes,
Horrid tan makeup and sewn-up eyelashes,
Rosy pink lighting and dirges to sing…??
Hell, no! I'm planning one final fling!

Dignity? Not my strong suit. A recent survey showed that three out of four dead people regretted not planning a more fun funeral. Statistically they spread two standard deviations from the mean.

No way! My deviant friends are neither standard nor mean! But let's peruse some possibilities. If you're eating, come back later.

Embalming is the body's final "flush 'n fill." And eco-safe ingredients are best. Hmm…what to use.... Yes! Twinkie filling! Great shelf life, cheap, and biodegradable. Sort of.

In the old days, people put coins on the eyes to keep them closed. Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle! Leave mine open. Then wedge a $100 bill between my choppers, and watch the fun.

What to wear, what to wear. I'm torn between a comfy viewing in my Shrek pajamas or asking the mortician to shoehorn me into a spangled costume from an ice skating catalog. Slit the back, stuff me into it, and make damn sure that size 4 tag is showing!

On second thought, given my lifetime sin-to-virtue ratio, I'll go with the flame-retardant jammies. If I were a guy, I'd tuck Viagra in my pocket - a little insurance in case we do rise from the dead, if only one body part at a time.

A formal casket deserves classy music at the service - Led Zepelin's "Stairway to Heaven," or better, the Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin."

But I'm leaning toward an earth-friendly cardboard box designed to look like a roadside diner, its doors open for the hungry microbial lunch crowd. Oh, play "Send in the Clowns."

The best music for cremation? "Light My Fire," of course! No pretty urn for me - seems lonely. I mean, the deck on my grandniece's Barbie condo is crying for a tiny Weber grill with real ashes!

Or I could help in the kitchen as an egg timer, delight guests as a Christmas snow globe. Ooh! Ooh! Funnel me into a wooden carousel horse and I'll gallop forever. Going in circles - it's what I do best.

No carousel nearby? Grab my old Dale Evans thermos, pour me in, and park it with the bowling trophies. I'll rest easy knowing that, finally, my ash is covered.

Caution when dusting! You want those ashes to end up in a Hoover vacuum bag?? How tragic to spend eternity thinking heaven looks like a furnace filter.

Dispersal requires "thinking outside the box"! But my pilot friends tell me it's tricky dumping ashes out of a plane. Rather than drifting down over the Nestle's chocolate plant, they could blow back into the cockpit, leaving the pilot with, like, a bad taste in her mouth.

I'll never be able to donate a fancy shmantzy organ. Shucks.

Instead, I'm giving the Motor Vehicle people my old Casio keyboard. Yeah, middle C is busted, but I don't think it's needed in most songs. Okay, maybe a few.

Copyright © 2007 Mary Tompsett

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