I hate funerals. I would pretty much be a dick if I didn't. But one thing they all have in common is that no matter how much of a degenerate you were in life, you get instant "saint" status the minute you kick the bucket.

It's a messed up event really. People pile in, critique your hair, makeup, clothes, and how well they were able to pack you on up into your Cadillac to the after life, or hell, or heaven, or eternal sleep, or trip to see Zenu, or your 72 virgins, or whatever you believe. I like to think that there are angels and all kinds of good stuff waiting for us at the end of the rainbow; it gives me a warm and tingly feeling when I'm being good and a reason to swear to be good when I'm not. Instant motivation, really. But, even if there are good things waiting when we all Ctrl+Alt+Del this place, I'm pretty sure a lot of people won't make it to that place.

Does it do the deceased a disservice to lie about their memory? What if they worked hard to be tools? None of that matters, though. You can be a chain smoking, weed puffing, vag tickling, wiener churning, axe wielding, prostitute slapping, little kid candy stealing, money hustling pimp named Slick Back who kicked the mentally challenged and pushed old people, but when you die someone will come forth and claim you're the lost saint of saintliness. By the time the fat lady has cried a river of reality TV tears and someone has threatened to jump into the grave behind you, you'll have been deemed a virgin who gave blood to save the lives of starving African kids while swaddled in cloth pissed on by missionaries and priests.

It's true. The few funerals I've been forced to go to I've known the person. I recognized their pictures from the obituary and everything, but I had to wonder if I just stumbled upon the wrong place. Granted, I don't take the traditional peek inside coffins, ‘cause that's just plain creepy, but people paint completely unrealistic stories about the ones they've lost. Does it do the deceased a disservice to lie about their memory? What if they worked hard to be such tools that their exploits became legendary?

For once I would love people to be honest during the eulogy of the dearly departed. For example, if my family had been honest about Uncle Steve, his obituary would have been less roses and cotton candy and more like this:

"Uncle Steve, affectionately known as ‘Moose' on account of his butt ugly mug, is survived by a select group of people, though few would admit to blood relation. Steve was a tool. He slept with his brother's wife, borrowed money, fled to Vegas for two years, and was summoned to appear on Maury Povich on several different locations for his illegitimate kids, doubtless none of which he could pick out of a lineup. Uncle Steve was a good time, and he could drink anyone under the table, but while you were under there he'd probably steal the rest of your beer and go home with your date. Steve sucked at life, so let's hope he does better in death. At his request, in lieu of a funeral, Steve requested a 21 shot salute.  Here's looking at you, dick."

So, what do you think people will say about you when you're chillin' six feet under?

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