Weekend at Bernie’s, But Make It My Funeral

This one’s a little dark, but if you’ve followed me for a while, you know that’s just how I process the big stuff—with inappropriate laughter, uncomfortable honesty, and maybe a cocktail.

I saw this floating around online the other day and immediately thought, Yes. This. My exact vibe. (And if you wrote this, you are a genius—please claim your crown.)

When I went through cancer a few years ago (Ewing’s sarcoma, left foot, ten months of chemo—the whole bone-cancer starter kit), I honestly thought I might die. And like a lot of people in that situation, I started thinking about what I’d want at my funeral. You know: songs, obit wording, the food situation. Because if you think I’m letting someone else write my obituary without at least a snarky paragraph, you’re wrong.

This meme is exactly my aesthetic. But why stop at the bouquet toss? What I actually want done with my body before it goes into the ground is to have it stuffed—like, full taxidermy—and strapped to the back of a pickup truck, my arm propped up in a friendly wave as I make one last lap through the neighborhood. (I once asked my surgical oncologist if I could keep my foot and have it stuffed if it had to be removed. He did not think that was a good idea. Apparently human taxidermy is “a biohazard” and “illegal.” Rude.)

A good friend of mine died last year, far too young, and I swear they really did have Costco sandwiches at the reception. Which, to be clear, I’m not judging—it just made me think about how weirdly practical death can be. There’s something darkly comforting about the fact that grief and budget catering can coexist in the same room.

He would’ve laughed at this post—absolutely would’ve. He probably would’ve agreed that funerals should have better snacks, too. And good bourbon—definitely good bourbon. What happened to him was awful, but it’s also exactly why I think about this stuff the way I do. None of us get enough time, so we might as well go out memorably—and if we can find humor in the weirdest, darkest places along the way, even better.

Also: I want a party. Not a “celebration of life” after I’m gone, where everyone cries and eats Costco sandwiches. I want a party before I die. One where I’m still the life of it, preferably with disco lights and cocktails named after my worst decisions. People can still party after I’m gone—go wild—but I want to be there for at least one good send-off while I’m still alive.

So yeah. Bouquet toss at the funeral. Me, waving from a truck like a creepy Mardi Gras float. And a pre-death bash for good measure. Because why not? Life is absurd. Death should be, too.