J-Lo plans weddings. Well she does in movies. A movie. A really rubbish movie. A really rubbish movie that my anonymous friend (Donelle Paulette Gardner of Napier, Hawkes Bay, DOB 15/05/1974) owns on DVD. Along with ‘Shall We Dance’, ‘Enough’, ‘Gigli’ and other critically acclaimed, J-Lo featuring treats.
J-Lo may know how to plan weddings, but I reckon I could take her in a fight. She may have a height advantage, but she is not a forward thinker like me.
You see, J-Lo has left a massive hole in the events planning market. Funerals.
I have decided I am going to take the Funeral planning industry by storm. The sort of storm that will get your washing really wet, just when you were about to bring it in off the clothesline. Intense, I know.
Novelty funerals. It is one of those ideas that is so brilliant you think, “Surely it has already been done to death (amazing punnage right there), it just seems so obvious!”
It hasn’t! People are still way too freaked out about death to have a laugh with it, which is stupid. People have been dying since the 1960’s.
Traditional funerals are so boring. They are indulgent, generic and impersonal. They make you feel sad, then comfort feed you- with cold sausage rolls, stale club sandwiches and dodgy lamingtons.
I want my funeral to be so hilariously inappropriate that people walk away feeling so elated, that they feel guilty.
I want smoke machines! And lasers!
I want my casket to be made out of chocolate, and I want people to eat it. Just a little taste. Go on. It’s funny.
I want to be escorted down the aisle by people wearing roller skates to the song ‘Toot Sweets’ from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
I will request that my future great, great grandsons (I have decided to wait till I am 95 to die) squeeze my naked, lifeless body into my funeral costume, a vintage Britney Spears outfit, circa 1998. This is not only for my amusement, but to ensure they grow up with a realistic view of what a 95-year-old woman’s naked body looks like. This will fuse with their current expectations of women gained from flicking through men’s magazines to arrive at a hopefully happy medium.
I want the entire church to sing Coolio’s ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ in harmony, rap and all:
“I’m an educated fool with money on my mind
Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye.
I’m a locked out gangsta, set tripping banger
And my homies are down so don’t arouse my anger.
Ooosh! I can see the Coolio induced fervour now! My nana mates will be doing wheel stands in their electric wheel chairs as my grandkids crump in formation around the chocolate coffin.
I want my lifeless corpse to be attached to marionettes strings, and I want a master puppeteer to make me do the Lindy Hop with Johnny from ‘Dancing With the Stars’, in an elaborate, show stopping finale.
Amazing, I know.
What I love about dying wishes, is it is possibly the only time you can make outlandish requests and people will endeavour to adhere to them. And if they don’t, they will be racked with guilt, and you will have every right to poltergeist their house for a while and make them doubt their grip on reality.
Funeral planning is your time to be creative. It is your time to make your dreams come true… (Gush!)
It is your duty to tell everyone now your ideal funeral, otherwise you’ll have a heart attack, and BAM! Next thing you know your non-puppet body is in a non-chocolate coffin, being buried to “My Heart Will Go On” (your heart will not actually go on if you have a heart attack, Celine is quite deceptive. Or inaccurate. I don’t believe she was deliberately trying to mislead anyone, just a bit stupid).
Like it or not, you will die one day, and if you want help in deciding the best hoo-rah party vision for you, let me know. I’ll even do it for free, because I want J-Lo to feel bad about her lack of business diversification.