I had a dream a couple of weeks ago. In it I was told that I would die last Monday. Luckily, I am still here. Unlike this site which with the updates I have done recently are leading into a slow and painful death. I may speed it up soon though. The death of the site, not the amount of posts that is.
So I told my wife of my dream who said “Can you die at work? You get quite a good payout of you die while at work don’t you!”. Well at least I knew I would be getting a knife in the heart in the middle of the night from her then!
But the conversation of my untimely demise moved on to funerals. I think she really was hoping that I was going to be gone soon! But luckily, she decided to talk about her own.
Which is good.
No, not in the “I hope she is going to die” way, but in that she plans on living a long time.
Naturally, we talked about the most important part of a funeral. No, not the “Should we have a free bar at the wake?” part, the OTHER most important part of the funeral. What to be buried/turned crispy in.
And that is about the time the conversation got a little out of control.
“I want to wear those hipster jeans I cant fit in to at the moment!” she said.
“But they don’t fit you!”
“Well, don’t bury me straight away. Give me a couple of weeks of decomposing first!”
So she wants me to leave her laying on a slab for a few weeks to “trim the edges”. I have decided that it is best that they also keep the embalming fluid to a minimum to stop the possibility of adding a few more pounds. Well, that was easy then.
But.
She also wants a tan. She has lost her nice South African tan since moving to England and has now a similar skin colour to mine. She is now a pasty milky transparent freaky “Did you see a ghost?” colour. Or British as it is also known.
“You have to take me to a tanning salon so I look good.”
She is going to be dead. Looking good? I think looking good isn’t really going to come in to the equation. But fine. I agreed.
I therefore at some point in my life will be rocking up to a beauty salon and having a few scared women paint my dead wifes toenails and then I will be sticking her in a hot place for a few minutes until cooked.
Then a few days later, I will be sticking her in an even hotter place for a few minutes.
Of course, if I have to do all this for her, I have decided it is also fair that I give her fake breasts.
Hey, she wants to look good, why not sick a pair of G cups in there too? Especially if she decides she wants to be buried. At some point in a few hundred years, they will decide to move the graveyard to build a supermarket or something and will open the box and there will be these huge breasts….and not a lot else. They can be given to the local under privileged kids to kick about as a football.
Don’t judge me. It’s called giving something back.
wheelturninghamsterdead.com 