Hi gang...look in light of recent medical surgical, and emotional traumas. I'm posting this rant just in bleeping case ya know what I mean.
Look if the old fart's gulag try sticking me in the ground in some damned box after I kick da bucket I'm saying here that all that noise if off the menu!
When I'm a goner when I kick the damned bucket shake'n bake my bones! Which is to say cremate my ass.
....Eh making absolutely sure I'm 'really' 'really' 'really' a stiff. I seriously don't want any misunderstandings at the oven door.
When Uncle Sydney keels over face first into a heaping platter of Bar-B-Q ribs my Root Beer crashing to the floor for effect...
(...this is an Album Cover. )
Anyway I wants to be cremated stir fried the works.
I have no wish to be in some damned box waiting for nose picking underpaid 30th century grad students to go poking at my bones, and wondering at my bad teeth.
For crying out loud what a stupid tradition.
Dolling up the dead shooting all sorts of chemicals into them..."aww he looks like he's sleeping."
No he ain't the guy's bleeping dead as a bag of squashed kittens. Get over it...the dearly departed sure did.
Let the Dead go.
We live we die we're meat we rot.
We turn to dust we're blown away.
But we're the dust that dreamed that loved, and had a desperate longing need to 'be' loved.
(My meds must be kicking in I'm getting all spiritual soft and fuzzy.)
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