Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

Have you ever contemplated your own funeral? If not, please do. I've seen far too many send-offs ruined by poor planning, the preferences of the recently departed ignored in favor of donkey rides and paper mache. Hence, for the benefit of my friends and loved ones, I'm taking this opportunity to put my wishes down for future reference.

I don't like the idea of being buried, stuck beneath the crushing weight of the earth. It's too much like parenthood. I'd prefer cremation instead. A light toasting actually, just so I reach the consistency of a crouton. A dusting of garlic and dried herbs will complete the preparation. I will then be propped in a corner for a mandatory viewing by the neighborhood children.

As an irreligious sort, I'd find it silly to have my funeral in a church. Better to have it take place on a scow in my backyard. I don't have waterfront property, which will only add to the sense of drama.

It doesn't make much sense to send flowers to an outdoor funeral, surrounded as I'd be with the invasive species arboretum we've created here at Snag Acres. Instead, I shall be festooned with piñatas and a wide variety of ceramic garden animals, adding a delightful air of insouciance to the proceedings. Katie the Wonder Dog, stuffed and preserved if she predeceases me, will sit at my feet in loyal attendance while my children read aloud from "North Dallas Forty."

Musical options are harder to narrow down. A marching kazoo band playing "Convoy" has a certain appeal, but in the end I have to go with the more traditional Céline Dion cover of the Dead Kennedys "California Über Alles."

Lunch (a misnomer, perhaps, as the ceremony won't end until 3 a.m.) will consist of a variety platter of braised eggs, garnished with raw root vegetables as a nod to my deep commitment to the "Living Food" movement.

Finally, my brain and spinal cord will be removed and donated to the local elementary school for use in the annual 3rd-grade production of "Hamlet." I'm a registered limb donor, so my arms and legs will be cryogenically frozen and saved for transplantation. The rest of me will be lightly sauced and, following a 3-day motorcade during which time the nation's banks will close in mourning, fed to the raptor exhibit at Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo.

And only then will a sorrowful populace attempt to move on.