Plastic Ashes

This morning death was on the menu. No, that's not the first line of a hard-boiled pulp fiction novel, although it could be. Instead, I'm referring to my father giving me detailed instructions on what to do in the event he dies during his upcoming abdominal aortic aneurysm surgery. He told me all about probate court, Social Security, and how he wants to be cremated. It was a bit depressing, but since he is 74 and has this health problem, it's a practical concern. He's like me in that we don't want to be embalmed and put on display for a memorial ceremony. I'm donating my body to a research company, which will play with it for three weeks and then burn it. After that, they can fling my ashes off the Citgo sign for all I care. My father wants his ashes given to me so I can sneak into the cemetery and bury them next to my mother, thus avoiding the $75 fee that I'd have to pay the funeral home for interrement. I wish I were kidding.

I'd like to thank the young lady from Texas, a fellow blogger, who has been leaving comments on Zeitgeist Expatriate. She sounds, or reads, adorable and interesting. Also, thanks to Bryant, Clare, Donna, Amanda, Eve, Captain Fellatio, Charlie, Linda, and all the other good folks who take the time to read my rantings. It makes me feel a little less like The Man Who Wasn't There.

Why won't the world's tallest man come to Boston and pull the plastic out of my dolphin? Is that too much to ask?