My Dream Obituary

I have always ascribed to the old saying, "if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself". Therefore I have taken it upon myself to pen my obituary now, so I won't have to worry about it when I'm dead. Here is the first draft, which awaits further details. The names have been omitted to protect me, because after all, I'm not dead YET.

**** *********, or **** as she was sometimes called by whiny people who wanted something, went to be with Groucho on ********, 20**, after a long and painful battle with life. She is preceded in death by practically everyone in her gene pool, except possibly her sisters, it's difficult to tell. Oh and maybe her husband. Hold a mirror under his nose. She is survived by a daughter, who is single, by the way, and a son, wherever he is. If she had had a life, it should have gone something like this...

She stood trembling in the morning mist, the dew clinging to the hem of her gossamer night gown. Dimly visible through the damp fog was the manly outline of a masculine figure striding powerfully toward her in the faint light of dawn. Suddenly, there he was, looming hugely before her, his immense mussels rippling across his massive chest, his golden hair gently swaying in the light breeze. Passionately, he crushed her heaving bosom to his throbbing pectorals. "Oh, take me now, you love beast!" she murmured breathlessly.

Instead, she was born in 1955 in Alhambra California at a small hospital which was later torn down to make space for a mini mall, and lived in Southern California for 39 years, except for a brief period in 1961 when she lived in Tucson Arizona, but still didn't get to be a cowboy. During the 1970's when girls were finally allowed to wear pants, she discovered she was in fact a gay man trapped in a fat spotty girl's body, but chose not to use this as an excuse to become a serial killer, like some of the big babies she went to school with. On New Years Eve, 1982, she met her husband to be at a bar referred to by the locals as "Scotty's Scrounge Lounge" where she was fascinated by his tattoos. Mutual need induced them to marry and spawn. Against all odds and common sense the marriage endured. In 1994 she and her little family joined the "White Flight" movement, but became confused and moved to Mississippi, then turned around and came to Oregon on the advice of an ex-friend. Once in Oregon, she achieved her life long dream of owning five acres to homestead, but sadly never had the time to do so, needing instead to work so as to pay for the damn thing. And of all places to work, she ended up doing time in Ingram Book Company. But she never regretted her "Dime at the I", as she was exposed to many great books she might never have known of otherwise. It was there she discovered Buddhism, and at wholesale prices!

After being used up and discarded like the exhausted "resource" Corporate America has reduced the workers of this benighted country to, she finally got that "job with a chair" she was always sniveling about wanting, only to discover something new to complain about: "Ow, sitting all day makes my back hurt." Boo Hoo. That woman would bitch if you hung her with a new rope. And the chair even had wheels!

So what was the point of being alive anyway? In the final analysis, when asked by the voices in her head if it was all worth it, she would reply, "Is there beer?" If the answer is yes, then it was.

Services to be held at the Camas Valley Transfer Site. In lieu of flowers, please place a flaming bag of poop on the doorstep of anyone with a McCain/Palin poster on their property.