My Death, Funeral, and Afterlife

I’m sure that in this blog, and to my friends, I’ve mentioned a few scenarios about the way I’d like to die and what my funeral will be like. And recently, with Jason Crombie’s post about his ideal funeral seared into my skull, I felt the need to write it all down. Here she is…


Death of a Jewboy




Some November, years from now, on the outskirts of Chicago, I will build a castle made entirely of ice. Life will be splendorous and gay at the ice castle, with weekly parties that attract an ever expanding group of friends and well wishers. I will become a minor celebrity.





Months will fly by in a frosty haze of sex, drugs, and unstable footing. Yes, some guests will be injured. But they will feel honored to have earned their concussions at such an exclusive residence. I will be featured in People Magazine under the headline “Chicago’s Mr. Ice Comes Clean: ‘Yes, I’m an uncle’”.

Come March, I will notice the walls drooping and make plans to leave shortly. But I won’t. One morning, the roof will collapse, and my body will be sliced open by hundreds of jagged icicles.





After several days of sorting through the frigid rubble, city workers will not be able to locate my body. Flamethrowers will be brought in. Afterwards, my body will be seen floating in the subsequent puddle, slightly charred, wearing a chain mail bathrobe, a gift from Nick Nolte, who visited frequently. I will be on the cover of People Magazine accompanied by the headline “Mr. Ice is Dead: There is No God”. Time for the funeral.





The service will take place on a gravel barge off the southern shore of Lake Michigan. It will be an open casket funeral. The coffin will be small. Fun-size small. My body will be crammed inside at violent angles. The mortician will have removed my scalp, and replaced my hair with thousands of raisins. Bees will be released upon my raisin fro. Angry bees. A young Swedish boy will play the organ solo from “Runaway” by Del Shannon over and over on a Casio keyboard. He will be decked out in the fully licensed NBA uniform of his favorite team, the Utah Jazz. A grubby homeless man clad in a striped referee outfit will preside over the service. He will try to smoke his whistle.





Those attending the ceremony will be given crab legs to munch on as a final gift, and as a symbol of my generosity and class. They will not know that the crab legs have been marinated in formaldehyde. Many will perish. Like my dad says, “There’s nothing more satisfying than needless, unmotivated revenge.”





The Ref will be given a huge gilded bible and he will read from it silently, moving his lips as he goes along, a cigarette bobbing up and down from the corner of his mouth. 15 minutes into his silent prayers, he’ll start laughing maniacally, close his eyes, and cum in his pants. Funeral service over.





There will be one pallbearer, a competitive weightlifter. He will raise the coffin over his head, pose for three minutes, and toss it into the lake. It will sink… Then it will rise to the surface resting on a black air mattress. A motor on the mattress will start by itself and my casket will travel north at a leisurely 5 miles per hour. Destination: Summer Island.





3 days later, my coffin will arrive at Summer Island. The ghosts of fishermen will pull me ashore effortlessly, routinely. They have handled coffins before. The bees will be gone by then. The raisins will have melted. I will look like a ghoul covered in shit.

Carried into a small hut, my casket will be opened and placed on a raised platform in the center of the room. A fat, flannel-clad man will emerge from behind a curtain. He will place his soggy mouth upon my lips, and breathe forcefully into my deflated lungs. My eyes will open and I will scream. My screaming will stop with the aid of a woman, blowing me, calming me. I will look into her eyes and know that she is my wife. And as I ejaculate into her ghost mouth, I will accept my new existence as a member of this tribe of dead fishermen. And I will reside blissfully in this island fog-world, with my shadow brothers, and my wife beside me, for eternity.

World's Greatest Employee

They hired me to answer the phones, but I didn’t. I don’t take my life seriously, so it’s hard for me to take a job seriously. I wore tank tops to work all the time and was repeatedly sent home, which is what I wanted anyway. My boss ended up keeping a set of clothes for me in his office, to wear while I didn’t answer the phones.




The pants were itchy, and I removed them often. I’d wear them at my ankles as I walked laps around the office, drumming a complex rhythm on my belly. The other employees thought I was retarded, and never spoke to me. I’d stare at them blankly, eating plums in a loud manner. It made them work harder, it made their lives harder.

My boss liked me. He told me stories about his dead brother, George. He said I looked like George, if George had grown up. But George drowned when he was 7. I was being kept as the living ghost of his lost brother, for whatever feeling that gave him.




One unremarkable Tuesday, I took some acid before heading into work. I had see-through vision that day. Most people call it x-ray vision and when I say most people, I mean the three Hispanic children that lived inside my face for a few hours. They had balloons. I never saw them again and I never got to ask them what their ice cream tasted like. This angered me, and I pushed Phil from sales out the window, using super drug strength. The power felt nice.





I didn't go to work the next day, and I haven't held a job in 4 years.

Jew Boo

I saw Fiddler on the Roof the other day with my family. And yes, there were Jews. So. Many. Jews.

There is a character in the play named Lazar Wolf. And with the fake peasant-Jew accent everybody uses, it sounds an awful lot like Laser Wolf, a character the writers should have considered. I believe that the addition of Laser Wolf -- an intelligent, powerful, and vindictive machine -- would make this musical more dynamic. Consider the facts.





Fact: A bunch of Russian Jews hiding a cybernetic wolf in their village, an outcast like them, is fucking heartwarming.

Fact: A mechanical wolf wearing a yarmulke is adorable. And a lucrative merchandising opportunity.

Fact: An old Jew assaulting Laser Wolf for drinking his kerosene is slapstick gold! Plus, it teaches children not to trust robots around fuel.




I look forward to meeting Laser Wolf. I know we'll become fast friends. But until that day, I will be very sad.

Bowels In Charge

I'm gonna be in St. Louis through Monday. I'm visiting my sensei, Larry. Smell ya later.

Take Your Kids?

Does your son like kangaroos? How does he feel about a kangaroo watching him sleep? ... Come on down to Raging Waves! Water slides!

I Have a Crippling Fear of Being Crippled

I’m 27, still a long ways away from triple bypasses and deathbed harmonica solos, but that doesn't mean I don't think about death. Life passes pretty quickly, and soon enough I'll be dead. No more me. Cause of death: torso failure. I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, have you seen this shit? What a torso! My rib cage is HUGE! You think you can touch my heart? Fat chance! It’s gonna take more than a screwdriver driven deep into my thoracic cavity to damage that shit, buddy.





…I’m terribly sorry for the harsh language and bravado. I don’t know what happened. Perhaps we can discuss it over drinks in my hotel room. No, I won’t try anything. I promise. We’ll have a blast! We'll drink teeny bottles of gin and read our favorite Bible passages. Then you’ll pass out from the drugs I drugged you with.





I’ll cast off my fake beard and get down to business. What’s that? You don't like being propped up in a chair and having hot chili thrown at your chest? Too bad. People who are asleep don’t have opinions.





...I'm a weirdo.

Animated Perfection and Birdy Nam Nam

This is my favorite thing right now. Just watch...

BIRDY NAM NAM - THE PARACHUTE ENDING from Steve Scott on Vimeo.

For those with slower computers, here's the slightly less detailed youtube version...





My eyes just sent divorce papers to my brain.