Planning your own funeral

The Funeral I Deserve

Let me begin by saying that being of sound mind and body are two highly subjective criteria.

Is anyone in this world ever of sound mind and body?

And by whose standards are we measuring soundness?

Folks who believe in magical beings are thought of, by their peers, to be perfectly sane.

You can get away with talking to invisible Jesus but if I argue with an invisible rutabaga I’m a nutcase.

You see where I’m going with this. (Please tell me you see where I’m going with this.)

Nonetheless, I’m sure the probate courts can figure out anything that I may not have done right in this, my last will and testament.

For starters, what money I didn’t spend on planning my funeral went to hiring the undocumented immigrants who have been instructed to murder you in your sleep should you deviate in the slightest from my final wishes.

That said, funerals are just too damned depressing.

I’ve never actually been to one but I’ve seen plenty of them on the TV.

And, frankly, if you can’t put a little fun in funeral, then I don’t want anything to do with it.

So, here are my plans for the Benjamin J. Gohs Memorial Death-a-bration.

If I’m going to be stuck doing the traditional service thing, then I want it done my way.

If it were up to me, I’d just have my ashes sprinkled out in the woods somewhere. But, the wife says I have to have some kind of public service that allows friends and family to have an excuse to miss work and school.


You want me to have a funeral, then I’ll have a muck-a-ruckin funeral! But I want it to be my funeral.

I want the folks in the back row to scream “yee-ha!”

I want people doing shots of hard liquor during the eulogy.

I want the cops to show up because the neighbors complained about the noise.

I want at least one of my friends to get a hasty BJ in the balcony from a married woman while her husband is in the john.

I want TMZ to be showing pictures of my funeral on TV.

I want one of my brothers to punch a photographer in the face.

I want a priest to punch one of my brothers in the face.

I want someone to show up who is actually named “Hasty BJ.”

I guess it doesn’t matter what kind of a church my funeral is held in … as long as it’s Catholic. Most of my family was raised Catholic (I think) and, even though I am a heathen, I figure it might offer some of them a little comfort to show up at a venue they find familiar.

Now that the location is settled, we need to find hosts.

Obviously I want my brother Hammy to run the show but I have a short list of celebrities I’d like to have make an appearance and dote over my corpse a little.

They may or may not deliver the eulogy, as I’d also like to have someone emcee the long list of events which I have planned throughout the day. My go-to hosts include Patton Oswalt, Roger Clinton and Betty White (together) and, only as a last resort, Ted Nugent.

As far as the entertainment goes, I am thinking we should have two or three bands. You can’t swing a dead cat in my family without hitting a guitarist (or a dead cat), so that shouldn’t be too difficult to manage.

Now, as far as activities—so many activities—there should be a minimum of the following: dwarf tossing area, outdoor turkey shoot, bobbing for dildos (for the ladies), wet T-shirt contest, female bum fights, tattoo booth, make-your-own-sundae bar, petting zoo (for the kids), an Elvis impersonator, a Mexican man dressed as Santa Claus who will be referred to as “Santana Claus,” and Penn and Teller should do 15 minutes or so right before the half-time show.

The half-time show will consist of two teams of naked Chinese men shooting each other with paintball guns. Last man standing drinks free the rest of the night and gets his choice of lady bums.

The doors on the venue will be locked precisely at noon, and no one will be allowed to leave until their blood alcohol content is at least three times the legal limit for operating motor vehicles.

Rickshaws and tricycles will be provided for guest transportation home.

Now on to the eulogy.

I’ve decided I want Bobcat Goldthwait to deliver my tribute.

If he’s not available, then get Gilbert Gottfried. If not him, then I guess get Ludwig to do it.


Get my overpriced book here:

Spit it out, junior

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