In case of undignified death . . .

I have left Jim instructions to follow in the event that I meet an undignified end. Unfortunately, he likes to think he has a mind of his own. I could debate that all day long, but there may not be time. So, since I clearly can’t trust him, here’s some shit I need ya’ll to do just in case.
I expect an undignified end. I see no reason to assume a mantle of propriety just because I’m dying.

Now, undignified deaths can occur anywhere. However, the very worst undignified deaths occur in the bathroom. It’s true. Oh, for shit’s sake. Just Google it.

If I drop dead coming out of the shower, put some damned clothes on me. I’m thinking the red Victoria’s Secret thong, a pushup bra, and a tasteful robe. It’s true I never wore a thong in life, because that would be gross. I mean, do I really have to tell you where that little stringy thing goes? Seriously, people. That would just be gross. However, once I’m dead there’s no reason not to, and that’s as far down that path I’m going to go.

Also, please blow-dry my hair. Nobody wants to be dead looking like a wet weasel.

If I happen to be, you know, “powdering my nose” at the time, clean my pertinent parts then wrestle me into those same red Victoria’s Secret thong panties. You don’t have to change my t-shirt. Just make sure it’s not stained with that Ben and Jerry’s I had at 2:00 in the morning. Or the peanut butter and jelly I ate from the jars at 2:30. You know. The usual.

And don’t forget to flush. I shouldn’t have to say that, but how do I know some of you weren’t raised by wolves?

Once you’ve got me all pantied up, pry my fingers off the electronic Yahtzee game. No reason I should go out looking like some kind of idiot, playing Yahtzee on the toilet.

Ok. Now this next part is of the utmost importance. I’ve been planning my funeral for years, and I know exactly what I want. I’ll need my James McMurtry Burn All Night tank top, my Sunday boots (knee-high, turquoise and burnished brown, fourth pair from the end on the fifth shelf in the shoe closet), and a denim skort. It doesn’t matter which skort. I have 37, and they’re all exactly alike.

Since it would be a fashion faux pas to wear a bra with that tank top, I’ll need you to duct tape my boobs in place. Oh, please. Yours don’t fall into your armpits like bags of sand when you lie down? Just get the damned tape and quit judging me.

Check that mole on my jawline. If there’s a hair in it, jerk that sucker out.

Make sure the hairdresser of the dead does not give me mall bangs. I will be too old for mall bangs. I’m too old now for mall bangs. Don’t forget my tiara.

Arrange for a milk crate to be placed behind the pulpit so Jon Stewart will be able to see the mourners as he eulogizes me. I wouldn’t even mention the fact that he’s short if he hadn’t betrayed me. See previous blogs. Reiteration would break my heart.

Be sure there’s a power strip for Eric to plug in his amp and guitar. I’d really prefer an acoustic version of “Wonderful Tonight,” but dead women can’t be choosers. Let him do whatever he wants. He is a god, after all.

Finally, make sure there are no flowers. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Center for the Study of Oklahoma Legislative Dysfunction. They’ve got a lot to do.