Plan Your Perfect Funeral

Just what it says in the title, folks.

Personally, I plan to have my ashes implanted in a 40-mile wide asteroid, which will then crash into the earth, extinguishing all life. After all, once the world has experienced me, things can only get worse. Kinder for everyone to end it quickly, so they don’t have to suffer a Clam-less planet.

Close friends and family members may be permitted to watch the collision from the surface of the moon. However, even they will have to commit inventive suicide once the last flames of the dying planet have flickered out.

So, what is your perfect funeral? And can it top the geocidal spectacle that my demise will set in motion?

Oh, yeah. Bloody hell yeah.

Much like that famous sci fi story, my body will be hurled into the sun in a way that alters the weather patterns on the planet Earth and just as people gather for a Memorial Service a year after my untimely death in a stranger Zamboni accident, hailstones the size of cocker spaniels will rain down upon the gathered group.

Mayhem will ensure. At least, that’s my plan.

Also, there should be some club sandwiches and cold beverages.


Donation of my body to science or to necrophiliacs. Whoever gets me first…have at me.
Get creepier than that.

I’m usually less than prompt with my social engagements.

In fact, just start my funeral without me, I might not be there.

A forensic tech I work with hasn’t so much thought about his funeral as about how he might torment the rest of us pre-funeral.

His current plan:
When tired of life, retire from work.
Balloon up to 350+ pounds. That would require gaining 100.
If still alive, hire a hit man.
Withdraw all money from bank. Reserve $4000 or whatever necessary for hit man. Turn all the rest into dollar bills.
Put on every article of clothing he owns. Liberally scatter $1 bills in and between every layer of clothing.
Put on every article of jewelry he owns. Jam rings on and affix necklaces until tight.
Invite hit man to ventilate him at least 20 times and preferably 30, with bullet tracks that cross.
Have hit man use a silencer so nobody notices.
Have hit man lock the door on the way out.
Hope 3 to 4 weeks pass before the neighbors notify the manager about the foul odor.

If he retires I think I’ll move to another city!!!

I’d considered being buried upside down, so that my enemies can kiss my ass, but it occurred to me that allowing ass access after death could result in most undignified, and by me unwelcome, activities. Then I’d have to come back and haunt people, driving them insane, et cetera.

Current plan is to be blasted out into space, in a coffin like Spock’s–with a window so I can look out at the stars.

Funeral/Memorial Service Music is to include the following:

Prelude: Midnight Rider, * Ballad of Curtis Lowe*, Bobby McGee (Janis version), Copperhead Road, American Pie

During the service: Amazing Grace either on bagpipes, or sung by a female soloist capable of the Delta Blues sound, and Dixie (slow, mournful version, rare, but beautiful).

Recessional: Free Bird (live version from the Fox Theatre, Ronnie on vocals)

Graveside, if I am to be buried: * Taps*, to which I am entitled, and Hell’s Bells when they chunk me in the clay.

My casket is to be draped in the American Flag, another right which I have earned. Inside the casket, folded near my heart, should be another flag, widely misunderstood by some but meaningful to me.

A confederate flag? Maybe I am wrong…

But I would invite you to start another thread explaining why that flag would be closer to your heart than the American flag. I am just curious as to the psyche of those who revere that flag.

But again, maybe I am thinking of the wrong flag…

I like the Spock coffin. Cute touch.
Texas flag?

I’m assuming that this is more morgue annoyance than crime solvability type stuff. Cataloging, path of entry, necrosis, soaking of fluids in clothing, maximizing putrescine would all be bad news I’m guessing.

If it were me, and a suicide, I’d have lots of fun. At least as much fun as could be had when offing oneself.

I’d extract teeth with significant features and put them in a fire with bones from another similar body type male’s bones. I’d have GSR on my hands from at least two distictive types of powders. The A.C. would be turned way up to complicate T.O.D. or the heater left on. One can’t mess that much with degree/days when committing suicide.

I would, shortly before death, consume a cocktail of blood thinners, stimulants, insulin, and maybe even a narcotic lollipop. I’m sure there are much more confusing pharm combos, but I have limited knowledge in that area.

At the estimated time I’d be ready, I’d have a timer set on an outlet that delivered an electric shock from several points on my body (the order to be determined by the ME) that would make almost everything peri-mortem.

After that, there would be a simple fire trigger that would cloud things further.

If I wanted it to seem like a murder as well, I’d have already shot the weapon in question with the slug either retrieved or buried, and had someone shoot my skull either ante or peri mortem shoot me with an attitude that would make murder seem likely. Gun and shell placement would be key.

I think I’m confusing things, I’ll shut up now.

I’d need someone with a time machine to dump my corpse back in 1917, dressed in full flight gear, and seated in the recognizable wreckage of a red Fokker triplane… onto the Sea of Tranquility, not far from the future Apollo 11 landing site.

Actually, forget the “seated” part…they should position my body so it looks like I survived the “crash” just long enough to crawl a few feet from the wreckage.


Failing that…I dunno, maybe a funeral service on a cliffside, under the full moon, with a choir in goth makeup singing a requiem mass mix. (Mostly Mozart and Lloyd Webber, with some filler.)

Ever see the movie* Toys*, with Robin Williams? Yeah, yeah, all smartass cracks aside, I want to be entombed in a large stone elephant which blows bubbles, flies around, and carries a banner that says “Let joy and innocence prevail.”

That aside, cremated and scattered near my MIL’s ashes.

My perfect funeral would not take place until sometime in the year 2099, shortly after my bionic body has won several gold medals at the Olympics and my billions of dollars have been distributed to the charities of my choice. My death, during a marathon sexual escapade, will be quick and painless. My high quality, plastic bionic ashes will be recycled into bottles for a case of beer to be sent into space with a crew on a million year mission and the empties will then be tossed into space along their way.

Hey, dnooman, you’re fun. Not normal, but fun. Of course that’s not news to you.

Yeah, major maximum morgue annoyance. You cannot imagine what the job of the new living forensic tech would be like, peeling off those layers of clothing one by one, itemizing every piece of jewelry soaked in decomposition fluids, required to collect, count, and photograph every juice-inundated dollar bill.

When it comes to the 20 or 30 crisscrossing bullets through a soft decomposing body, you cannot imagine what the report would be like to write. “The bitch of all time” comes close.

Fun rarely seems high on their agenda from the notes. But as I said, you’re fun. And different.

Like we wouldn’t just ask when you were last seen alive.

I sure as hell ain’t giving you any more knowledge.

Yeah, yeah, you go on believ- Absolutely right, Dnooman. This would confuse everything. Yeah. That’s the ticket.

And making sure the gun wasn’t on the scene. First thing I ask.

You’re at least trying bravely to confuse things, and for that I give you major points.

To make this at least tangentially related to the OP: I hope you would like to be cremated.

After that major hijack I feel obligated to do something to answer the OP.

Between death and funeral: Have the local organ procurement organization use every bit and piece that’s still serviceablle.

Funeral: I’m really sorry, but funerals are for the feelings of the living. Every rite performed I hope will assuage or symbolize the grief of the ones who care. So it depends a lot on whether my husband predeceases me. If he has, not likely anyone is going to feel much for my mortal remains, beyond there goes a good teacher, occasional friend, good colleague. Let’em do whatever the hell they want with what’s left.

Not for nothing, but the Lloyd Weber is the filler.

:smiley: :smiley: :smiley:

Ya’ll are predictable. Maybe it’s the FDNY flag, maybe it’s the Boy Scouts of America flag, maybe it’s the flag of Israel or Japan or Equador or Canada or Switzerland and our Guest is implying that while he has served in the US Armed Forces, his heart remains somewhere other than the USA. Perfectly understandable.

It might even be the flag of theUnited Federation of Planets, which would dovetail really nicely with DMark’s wishes. :slight_smile:

No, please, for hijacks this interesting I’m willing not to have the OP answered!

In fact, this is making me consider what kind of state my remains should be in when implanted in the Lucifer’s-Hammer-ripoff; I’m thinking mummified, or perhaps incased in frozen carbonite.

Am I the only one who doesn’t want a funeral?

After I die, I want whatever salvageable parts donated to whomever needs them (including medical research) then the rest cremated. No funeral, no memorial service. Dump my ashes somewhere in the woods where they’ll fertilize a tree. I’ve stated I don’t want a headstone, but if people insist, just a rock (ordinary found-in-a-field rock) with “Lissa” carved into it.

The last thing on earth I want is to be put in a coffin in a room where everyone can stare at it (or, even worse, my pickled corpse on display) while everyone mills around, half there out some vague sense of obligation, and half there because they want to show respect, even though the star of the show has no idea. Then a preacher who didn’t know me mouths platitudes about what a great person I was, probably giving me credit for qualities I didn’t posess and ignoring what was important to me. Then, my family gets hit with a huge bill for something I didn’t want in the first place.

No way, Jose.

Easy. I’ll probably end up buried in the ground. Bring on the scavenging beetles!

Squish, squish.

Haven’t given the funeral much thought; I’d prefer to be planted with no muss, no fuss (and no pickeling by the undertaker). But I am important to a few folks; as has been pointed out, funerals are for the living; so I rather suspect I’ll get the usual runaround.
I do, however, have a jim-dandy epitaph picked out:

Hey, Stupid - You’re Standing on My Crotch

God dammit!
Go get me a rag to clean my keyboard.