So my buddy’s mother-in-law came by the house the other day. Said she was in town for a “very special occassion.” I was like, “What, someone getting divorced? Deported? Deposed?” No, something much more serious. Little did I know it was the other D word. So this woman’s first husband died a decade or so again, and worms sucked down his rotted and decaying flesh at some jacked-up private veteran’s cemetery here in town. She talked with some friends and learned she could buy her own plot, right next to her decomposed spouse, for a measly $3,500. And she decided she wanted a pretty headstone, which ran another $3,000. She bragged about writing the check, supposedly saving my buddy’s wife from having to deal with that shit upon her untimely demise.
I was stunned. Not only did that selfish twat just steal $6,500 from my buddy’s inheritance, but she clearly stated she didn’t trust them to deal with her remains. They’re REMAINS, you idiot! You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You won’t know what they did with your wrinkled-ass sack of bones, because you’re fucking DEAD. You’ve been returned to the dirt and shit from whence you came. Hopefully something more beneficial to nature will sprout from your recycled DNA. Your spirit box has returned to the angelic mansions located in the great deed-restricted lily-white suburban neighborhood in the sky. Why was it so important that she ensure she is buried in a certain spot in a certain cemetery next to some bro who will never know she is there? My own mother died suddenly and didn’t leave any indication of her intent. I had her ass burned. They asked me what I wanted to do with her remains. I was like, I don’t know, they’re ashes, right? What would I want with ashes? They insisted I had to take them, and I was forced to pay for them. I tossed the shitty box I bought out with that day’s garbage. Even that still ran me close to $1,000.
Apparently, this burial plot pre-purchase thing is a common thing among folks with sub-average IQs including most Baby-Boomers and Republicans. I’m not sure where this idiotic idea began, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with talk radio or Fox News.
I began to think about the entire funeral business. I knew this old guy, Marvin, who worked at a funeral parlor in Philly years ago. I’m sure he’s long dead. Marvin told me his boss would buy a new Cadillac cash every year. Marvin would try to gross us out at lunch with his graphic stories about the embalming process and how they drained bodily fluids so the body won’t stink. The particular funeral parlor he worked for didn’t quite follow established procedures. I’ll spare you the details. The truth is, by the time an embalmed body is buried, it’s not much more than some skin, bones, punctured organs, and a shit-ton of chemicals. There’s most likely cotton in the nose, plastic holders below the eyelids, and something to shape in the mouth, and gauze shoved down the throat to absorb purging fluids. The anus and vagina may be packed with gauze to prevent seepage. The body is refrigerated to delay decomposition. In addition to a myriad of other fees, funeral homes charge upwards of $3,000 for this nasty process.
My buddy’s mother-in-law, just like many mothers-in-law you might know, is a narcissistic piece of shit. She wants to make sure when she dies, you’re gonna remember it for the rest of your life. Her little stunt will depress people at least five times every year. On every birthday, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and any other random bullshit holiday, my buddy and his family will now have the obligation to visit a sad-ass place to stand on top of a buried pile of flesh and pretend she knows they’re there.
What’s even worse is suicide culture. There’s this bullshit series on Netflix called 13 Reasons Why. Don’t bother watching it unless you too are a needlessly depressed narcissistic upper-middle-class suburban teen. Basically, the series revolves around seventeen-year-old Clay (side note – every male named Clay I’ve ever met was gay) and his deceased female friend Hannah (always a stripper name), who has committed suicide after failing to cope with silly gossip. A box of cassette tapes that lead up to her suicide detail thirteen stupid reasons why she ended her life. The crimes here are the girl’s call for attention, and Netflix glorifying suicide to millions of depressed dummies. These idiotic teens think the only way people will appreciate them is if they lay a suicide guilt trip upon anyone who cares. Again, they fail to realize they won’t be here to appreciate the day or two of attention they’ll get post-suicide, as well as the obligatory cemetery visits that will devastate the family and friends who actually supported them.
When I die, I told my wife to put my shit in a garbage bag and leave me by the curb. Why not? Since the funeral business has friends in politics, this is not legal in most states. I compromised. I asked she donate my corpse to medical science. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if someone sawed my pecker off after I’m dead. What the hell am I gonna do with it? Supposedly, they cremate you and dispose of your ashes if you go that route. No fuss, no muss, no cash. I bit my tongue for my buddy’s sake. But you know I wanted to hit that wacky bitch with a barrage of questions that would leave her (and my buddy) feeling incompetent.
So, as advertised, here are my 13 Reasons Why Death is a Scam.
- You have to purchase land so you can rot in peace.
- You have to purchase an expensive ass coffin to put in that land so it can rot in peace too.
- And transportation costs to get the stiff to the funeral home and then to the cemetery. I asked if I could just throw it in the trunk. That was a no.
- Don’t forget the pricey headstone so your loved ones can leave…
- Obligatory flowers on at least four annual occasions…
- And give you yet another reason to think your own life sucks.
- The priest/rabbi/minister will expect at least a Benjamin in a plain manilla envelope for saying a few nice things about your decedent.
- When you’re dead, you won’t realize anyone visited your stupid gravesite.
- Funeral directors will charge your loved ones thousands to suck out your guts and shove gauze up your ass.
- Even if you’re not buried, they’ll charge you to incinerate the remains…
- And force you to buy a container so you can take those ashes with you. I’ve always wondered if I could verify that ashes indeed belonged to my loved one, or that old stray cat that peed on my porch.
- And when you take the 50 people out to lunch after the funeral, the restaurant will give it to you up the ass with a mandatory 18% gratuity.
- All that money paid to the funeral people and the cemetery comes out of your inheritance. Fuck that!