Death called while you were out, so I gave him your cell number.

Now if you want to get to heaven

Let me tell you what to do

You better grease your foot up buddy

With that ol' mutton stew

And when the devil comes at you

With them greasy hands

You just slide on over to the promised land

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died) ~ Lyle Lovett

So, they buried Betty Sue this week.

Sitting at the graveside, slapping away an in-laws roving hands, I started thinking: Well, this sucks.

I do not want a quiet and tasteful funeral. I want a loud, bawdy funeral. Alcohol is a must. Loud music. Police called. That's how I want to go out.

And here is the playlist:

Spirit In The Sky - Martin Greenbaum

Magic Carpet Ride - Steppenwolf

Don't Fear The Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

Church - Lyle Lovett

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died)- Lyle Lovett

Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-Alot

And, as they lower me in to the ground......

Queen's Another One Bites The Dust.

Then I want everyone to pile into various taxicabs (drinking and driving? Not at my funeral buddy) and hit the town.

I think, for this occasion, we should rent out the Hunt Club. I mean really, how much could it be? Hire a zydeco band, BBQ and steaks and something nice and veggie for Pet.

And an open bar.

And smoking.

Lots and lots of smoking.

Except around Vidi. She is seriously allergic, whole face swells up. Cut her some slack and give her a seat by a window.

Tell the real stories. The laugh so hard you wet yourself stuff. Like the time I got drunk and tried to cop a feel off a cop, ( I STILL think his ass looked fine in those stretchly little beige britches) or even the time when my date was on America's Most Wanted. Seriously, we are at dinner, my mom is home watching him. Not good.

And of course, Sweetboy will have to tell the story about Mother's Day and the sunglasses.

Maybe someone will start a conga line. I'd like that.

Dress code is optional. Come naked if you want. Wear a red dress or flip flops. Hell, won't bug me. I'll be dead.

Speaking of which, I don't care what you bury me in but my feet better be in Vans. I know they don't put shoes on dead people but by god if they can put Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court, they can put shoes on me.

(FYI - I still believe Anita Hill - just sayin'.)

I remember a t-shirt once that said, "Live your life in such a way that the preacher doesn't have to lie at your funeral."

As for me, I want him to have to lie his ass off.