How Come I Never Get Invited To The Cool Funerals?

Yes, I've been to an Irish wake or two in my time, and it is usually true that the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake is one less drunk, but on the whole I've got to say that my years of attending wakes/funerals have been kind of a drag (yes, I know, somebody has died and these occasions aren't supposed to be jovial, rip-snorting, ass-kicking events, but still). Not that I spend my days and nights pouting about such things, but a recent news story really drove home the point that I have got to start seeking out better wakes/funerals. It seems that out in California (this can't be a made up story because California is too trite; anyone with such an imagination would have set this bogus story somewhere, anywhere else) at a funeral service for a person who indulged (while still alive) in medical marijuana-laced brownies, somebody passed around a tray of brownies. Yes, the brownies were pot brownies, in a kind of tribute to the recently deceased. The interesting part is that no one told the three senior citizens--who ate the brownies and wound up in the hospital--that the brownies were "special." All's fine with the old folks, so not to worry.

Unfortunately, my list of "best of" funerals/wakes pales heavily in comparison. About the best I can muster is the wake I attended for a guy who was always on the phone. As a tribute, his family put his beloved phone in the open casket next to his corpse (this was a few years ago, before voice mail; it was a battery operated cordless phone complete with an attached answering machine). Maybe it was the grief that distracted the well-meaning loved ones, but nobody thought to turn the thing off. So there, right in the middle of the wake, as several of us were mingling and saying nice things, the phone rings/bleats. Before anyone could figure out what was going on and how to stop it, the caller's voice boomed out of the answering machine: Newt Gingrich, Robo-calling, urging the dead man to vote for a certain Republican Congressman in the upcoming election. Needless to say, those of us liberals in attendance walked out in a huff.

Then there was the funeral of a friend of a friend I got roped into attending after losing a bet. Maudlin beyond belief. The presiding minister kept mispronouncing the deceased's name, some four-year-old in attendance was screaming for his Elmo throughout most of the service, and at the end when it came time to play the deceased's favorite song--Bob Dylan's "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" (I love Bob, but really, talk about trite)--the person manning the boombox got mixed up and wouldn't you know it, out blared Bob's "Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35"--the one that goes, "Everybody must get stoned ..." (which, come to think of it, would have been appropriate for that California funeral).

I won't go into the details of the funeral I attended for an avid roller skater. Or the one for the woman who died of a lip balm overdose. Suffice it to say, if you hear of a probably-cool funeral taking place, give me a buzz. I'll bring the Kleenex and the Doritos.