Three days and 50 years ago Don Larson through the sixth Perfect Game in the history of baseball and the only perfect game ever thrown in the World Series. In the two hour and eight minute epic it would be nice to believe that everybody observed the common courtesy and not mentioned that a perfect game was occurring, but there are a lot of assholes out there, especially in New York.
Life does not resemble a Perfect Game. Most people spend their time talking about what is going on, living life in the past and, on occasion, take abbreviated looks towards the future. The vanishing point on the horizon is not a concept discussable; according to custom It is a subject that should not be broached as if not speaking Its’ name will somehow either prevent It or not jinx It into happening.
A person that discusses their own death is often considered to be suicidal or an attention seeker, the purpose of this article is not for either of them. It is more in the vein of: ensuring that a Romantic Comedy or item of similar ilk is not played in a room should I fall into coma. It is to tell you that I love you. That my ashes should be placed into a bottle of 18 year old Macallan whisky with only a mouthful of scotch left in it (the rest is to be enjoyed by friends and loved ones at an earlier date). It is to tell you that my ashes should be spread on the pitching mound at the new Twin’s Stadium (should that not be possible hopefully technology would evolve to the point where I could be made into a CD, though as further proof I am not ready to shuffle off the mortal coil it would take at least 400 years to construct the play list for this album)
The service should be simple, the location is not important as long as it does not occur in Minneapolis or the suburbs.
At the service the following texts should be enjoyed in the following order (Seriously, I’m not trying to be a Corpsezilla here but… c’mon it is my big day):
Opening Song (join in everybody!): Satisfied Mind by Rhodes & Hayes
Opening Text: By Mule (to be read by a well trained eight year old)
Okay, this hasn’t been written yet, but the general theme will be designed to make everybody cry and feel generally bad that I’m not there to celebrate. Heaving bosoms and general lamentations on how much people loved me are expected.
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
(Chapter 9: “Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left”… “So we beat on, boats against the curtain, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
John 15:9-17
A two-hour interlude for everybody that wishes to say nice things about me will be opened and moderated upon. In all expectations this will go significantly longer. Also at this point the open bar (This is to be a full bar. None of this wine and beer only bullshit!) should begin handing out drinks and little sandwiches or quartered sandwiches. In the unlikely event that people do not have two hours worth of praises to say about me, everybody is expected to sit reverently and stare at my rotting corpse until they do think of something good to say (the booze will help with this).
Mr. Tambourine Man by Bob Dylan
(only this verse)
Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,Closing text
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.
The Lake of Innisfree by W. B. Yeats
Close: Go, Tell it On the Mountain by John W. Work, Jr.
Why? Why not? It’s my fucking funeral. Boom, done. Having gone through a few dry runs, the estimated time for the entire thing is only 7-10 hours.
I’m aware that there is a noticeable lack of songs and that this will cause a bit of a stir. I think that Mule’s of all ages will agree that people cannot sing as well as they think.
Okay so that’s pretty much that, kind of a grisly business, huh? But again, planning ahead is all part of the game. Don’t let Dad or Jordan get too involved in the texts. I mean they can read something, I’m sure they’ll do that well. Do not, this cannot be stressed enough, let them “enhance” the reading by adding to them or reading a different text from the same book. It’s my special day dammit.
Next Week: Pharrell Williams
4 comments:
the only issue that may come into play: how are we to spread your ashes over the pitchers mound of the new Twins stadium if you are to be esonced in a bottle of 18 year old Macallen scotch, slightly dampened by a mouthful of said liquid?
Soo...did you get a job yet?
hmmm, the ashes mightn't be spread so much as is a quivering lump on the Twins mound. Do you think that would provide the Twins with better luck?
10les
As long as we don't have to drink the remaining Mule sludge in the whiskey jar, I'll do whatever it takes. However, I think a freewheelin' by Jordan never hurts.
-J-
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