"When I'm dead, just throw me in the trash."

The immortal words of Danny Devito's infamous Frank Reynolds resonate with me quite well. The quote comes from a scene in It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia where Frank refuses the possibility of a death spent in a dirt 6 x 3. On one hand this is purely economical; on the other Frank is being realistic and knows that after death our wishes don't particularly matter.

My Deadly Disclaimer

If you haven't realized it by now, this post is gonna get macabre and painfully real; so if you don't feel comfortable reading about the infinite abyss of death, then please retreat to your well-worn copy of Eat, Pray, Love.
For those of you interested in hearing the thoughts of a 20-something year old with relatively little life experience on arguably the most serious topic, welcome to the circus.

I will preface my own comments on death with my own personal beliefs. I do not believe in an afterlife. No Pearly Gates greeted by a bearded ponce in sandals, no angelic lights with feelings of everlasting peace, no reincarnation into something according to our karma (based on my Reddit account, I would most likely come back as a herring). It's a permanent dirt nap, a ceased existence. Now with that said I will not denigrate those who believe in the previous statements; you have every right to discard my grim machinations and replace them with your own expectations. Death is a scary concept, there is no shame in yearning for a sense of comfort when it comes to mind.

But let's get back to my ever-controversial opinion.

On Traditional Funerals

I will say this, as someone who has spent an unfortunate amount of time in funeral homes wallowing in their atmosphere of contrived sorrow, I abhor the possibility of being shoved into a timber box while my loved ones don ebon garb and cry over the sounds of Sarah McLachlan songs in some pseudo-Christian death ceremony (if anyone plays Sarah McLachlan at my funeral instead of Black Sabbath and the like, I will forgo my previous apprehensions on ghosts and find a way to haunt them).

Funeral homes are absurdly sad places that rely on ghastly tradition to keep their customers using their services. They are consistently decorated in outdated furniture and artwork while maintaining a permanent aroma of dead flowers. They do not inspire feelings of remembrance, just sadness. So please respect my wishes on the matter and do not overpay some wrinkled cretin to house my corpse for viewing in a building of drab paint and tactically placed tissue boxes.

Being embalmed and placed into a coffin is not only an exorbitant expense, it is Cronenberg levels of gruesome. I do not enjoy the potentiality of being cut open while naked (though at least the mortician will get one last sought-after peak at my manhood), being sucked dry of all my fluids via shop-vac, pumped to the seams with formaldehyde, stitched back up like a fleshy scarecrow, and caked in enough makeup to make a Sephora employee jealous. I have strong doubts that anyone will be seriously interested in seeing my dead old face grimacing back at them in a crisp black suit and tie (old if I taper my indulgent lifestyle, that is).

Once I'm dolled up like a high school biology class dissection, I'll be retrofitted with a boxy suit of mahogany. Coffins are comically overpriced. Relying on the grief of their loved ones, funeral homes and their co-conspirators push for the passed-on to be lovingly placed in a gorgeously lacquered wooden box with silver hardware, plush trim, and a bed of soft velvet. I'M DEAD, I DON'T NEED A COMFORTABLE BED. If I happen to wake up after being buried in a posh coffin complete with down pillows and silk siding, how cozy I am will be the last of my concerns. Unless you plan on being kept in the garage for occasional viewing and remembrance, a nice coffin is just going into a hole in the ground. Recycle the box the new TV came in and put me in that for all I care.

Now that I'm encased in my eternal surrounding, my living loved ones go out into a field full of other buried decomposed corpses (which I'm sure make for superb fertilizer) and bury me in an expensive hole with an equally expensive rock to mark where I'll placed like the world's shittiest treasure (for my friends who choose this option, I will absolutely be making a treasure map and spreading rumors of gold and jewels placed in your coffin). You and the rest of my loved ones will struggle to lift me down into said hole with tears flowing down your faces (coffins are damnably heavy), then some guy will recite a passage from a book about the place I know I'm not going and you will all choke out some nice things to say about me. Forgo the whole damn thing and just shoot me out of a circus cannon at your bastard neighbors.

I will admit that this ritualistic goodbye can have its moments. Upon discovering that to be buried with my grandfather's ashes, the box his remains were placed in would have to be placed between her legs, my grandmother muttered, "One last time, Richard."

On Nontraditional Funerals

Fans of Hunter S. Thompson know that his funeral consisted of his cremated remains being shot out of a 150-foot cannon, topped with his iconic peyote button fist, to the tune of "Spirit in the Sky." The ultra-extravagant ceremony, at a whopping $3 million, was funded by his friend Johnny Depp, who plays him in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That is the way you do it. Go big or go home. But for the average person, this is unrealistic.

I've often lauded the idea of a Viking funeral in which my corpse (or living self if I'm really feeling it) is placed on a boat, floated out into the sea, and lit aflame (or preferably packed with C4). Unfortunately this over-the-top concept would only serve to impoverish my descendants. Death shouldn't be a self-indulgent affair; you're dead, you're not sitting around watching the outcome of your plans. Also this may include punishments by the Coast Guard who are not overly fond of floating fire barges filled with TNT.

If anything, give me the old Big Lebowski. Cremate me (piece by piece in your kitchen's oven at the highest temp), throw my ashes in a used can of Folger's (though I would prefer Chock Full O' Nuts), and spread me out over the ocean (or even better throw me in the face of a Neo-Nazi; give me the chance to tell a fascist to suck it one last time). A heartwarming speech may be given, so long as you avoid Walter Sobchak's references to Vietnam.

I am also a strong proponent of sky burials. The age-old tradition in Tibet of placing the corpse atop a mountain, out in the open, to be consumed by birds and other animals. Cheap, sustainable, and more importantly, bad ass. Granted, this might not work as well if you toss me out by the back porch for the chickadees and squirrels.

Of course a celebration of life is the best way to say your goodbyes. Sitting around a church basement without alcohol is not how I would like people to spend the day remembering me. One remembrance celebration I attended involved bottomless Veuve Cliquot and plenty of fond memories, if anything that is how you should ask your family and friends to spend their time and money.

In Conclusion

Funerals are expensive, outdated, and just plain predatory. Don't fall victim to being forced into costing your loved ones tens of thousands of dollars because of your traditionalist views on death; make it interesting and cathartic. For all your know, you may be hit by a truck tomorrow (this might actually make burial easier as we can scrape you off the road and just pour you into a box) so let the people potentially in charge of the matter know your wishes. 

And for crying out loud, don't let them say "From dust to dust." It's overdone. Be original. Give them something like "Thank gosh that's over."