At my Funeral

To my future funeral planners, or whoever is in charge of me in 2109:

Let’s have some giant streamers printed with my face and fly them around the room, so when they float over the audience it causes a creepy hushed moment. Then play polka music to clear the palette.

In between all of the hoopla, add in a little pyrotechnics. Place rockets inside the casket, open the door suddenly and watch the sparks fly. (Hand out sparklers for the kids)

Please allow Tim Duncan to speak at my funeral, and if he is not available find someone who looks like Tim Duncan and put him on stilts.

For Tim Duncan, a pre prepared speech:

"For all of you who ever had a problem with JT, how do you feel now? He’s dead. Let that forever hang on your conscious like a piece of stranded spaghetti hanging off of your crooked folds of meat that you call lips.

When JT became President of the galaxy in the late teens, we all thought his inability to complete a sentence would hamper him from capturing the alien hearts. But they loved him, and granted him the power of whistling loudly through his teeth, which he always wanted. (Play a recording of me whistling through my teeth, and wait for the awes from the crowd to subside)

If he were here today, he’d apologize for all the wrongs he did. He would be lying, and totally faking it. A 129 year old male apologizes to no one.

Please feel free to donate to his memorial: A cloning project for JT.

Thank you, and no, we do not validate parking for your hover cars, which JT helped invent."

Lights dim, and the party is over.

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