Dick chose the song for this week's One Song. Being the morbid fellow he is, Dick asked us to pick the song we want played at our funeral. We all know that funeral's suck, but these horrible ceremonies succeed in making an already sad moment even sadder. We shouldn't morn; we should celebrate the life of the deceased. With this in mind, we've picked unique songs to play at our 'life celebrations'. And this week, thanks to my naturally healing Reiki psychic, we are able to look into the future to see how each of us Syffalers dies. In order of our passing:
Fat Jon was one of the first producers that I ever got gay for that actually made me want to start planning my own funeral's playlist. Of course, I won't have a funeral, I'll have a pot party, with juice boxes for the little ones and marijuana for the old people who never smoke pot. Why would I want to insist that people smoke pot at my fun-funeral? Because music like Talk To Me, on the reefer, is some of the most poetically peaceful shit you can experience in your entire life, and what better way to be all reefered up than when paying homage to my life lost than forgetting where you are and shutting your eyes and zoning the Fuck out. Also, the second best part about this song, besides the song itself, is that you beatbox the drum beat (poorly) for a short period of time afterward.
Fuck even giving me a funeral. Seriously, outside of New Orleans brass band and lots of booze, just send me to glory in a glad bag. Put me in moving boxes and in the recycle bin on the curb. Roll me up in some old carpet remnants and push me off a cliff. My mom always says, "if you didn't send me flowers when I was alive, fucking keep'em once I'm not." I love that classy lady right there! Burn me in a bonfire in the back yard and then use my ashes to further ruin this dead goddamn lawn at this felony-infested, bachelor pad of an address. Be happy I'm gone, because even if it was a tragic accident, I'm ready to go. Fuck it!
Jim Morrison knew he was writing my funeral song when he penned this down in 1967. This song is so chill, so beautiful (and by one of my all-time favorites). I wouldn't want any other song to be played at funeral. Even though the track is over 11 minutes long, I'd want the lights to dim, the entire song to play and the congregation to just sit in reflection about my awesome life. Perhaps Jim and I's ghosts will show up and drop some heavenly acid and dance down the aisles together. That would be the perfect end to me.
Choosing a song for this week's theme was tough. I could decide whether I wanted a song that'd make people uncomfortable, make them laugh, or make them cry. So I thought to myself, 'how about all of the above?' I'm going to play The Lonely Island's Dick In A Box, but with explicit instructions to a box over my dick in an open casket. Who would open that box? (I bet Joel would)
I don't know if there's a heaven or hell. I don't know if reincarnation is something that really happens. Are we ghosts in a spirit world? No clue. Heres' what I do know: When you die the sax solo from Rumpshaker plays for all to hear. That's right every time that jam comes on that signifies the passing of someone. somewhere. Now that you have this knowledge are you tempted to press play. It's easy to get drunk with power once you know the truth isn't it? Why do you think god, or the God's, or our Engineers get so twisted? They are high on Rumplemintz and Rumpshakers. Zoom-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom.
Assuming my death is a timely one where I am aged at least fifty years or greater, I am confident that the available technology will enable me to have the ultimate funeral. I want my coffin to be placed aboard a highly-modified cigarette boat equipped with wings and a camera wirelessly transmitting a video feed to my funeral attendees. Back in the funeral home my song begins and the boat starts its autopiloted journey. Blurred images of serene mountainscapes and streaked clouds light up the massive, high-resolution television where my friends and family look onward with confused, yet knowing faces. As the song picks up, as does the speed of the boat. Eventually, the craft begins moving so fast that it becomes airborne. Several minutes elapse as my coffin-rocket continues going faster and faster, higher and higher. THEN, just as the song hits the 17:45 mark, flames begin erupting and quickly spread. The vehicle continues onward and begins to resemble a giant fireball JUST BEFORE the on-board charges detonate, exploding my corpse into billions of pieces over the horizon.
Portillo's beef sandwiches and champagne are then served.
Because my demise will likely involve an unidentifiable body cream, cigarette burns, a ruthless barrage of podcasts about colonics, personal mountains of yayo, and an uzi (read: mountain bike accident), I couldn't think of a more appropriate tribute to the essence of a man. Can you ne happy with yourself if you're not singing these very words every day?:
"Wanna be a -- baller, shot caller
Twenty inch blades -- on the Impala
A caller gettin laid tonight
Swisher rolled tight, gotta sprayed by Ike
I hit the HIIIGHWAY, making money the FLYYYY WAY
But there's got to be a BETT-ER WAYY!
A better way, better way, YEAH-AHHHH"
I have always planned to have a living funeral, meaning I'm gonna be up in that fucker dranking dranks with folks and saying goodbye. My perfect plan is/was1 to retire with a nice nest egg, ideally a little early, pick up a camper and drive off into the sunset. Live like a drifter. No roots. No ties. Just go where the road takes me; eating psychedelics and bedding all manners of grizzled former party girls now tending bar at some back water saloon on the outskirts of humanity along the way. Eventually my unidentified remains will be found in a gulch somewhere by an old couple named Burt and Sandy who self identify as "saved" and/or "blessed" depending on the time of year and company they are keeping. It will be sure to Fuck up their day. This song would be the song I drive off to while all my friends and loved ones shed a tear and think about how much they loved this asshole.
1Then I went and had a family fucking up the funding and the easy to sever ties. Doh!