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You’ll forgive the formality of this form letter, but my needs are specific and, as such, I will be reviewing the responses of several mortuaries.

I suppose that some sort of dress code is as good a place to start as any. Suits and ties for the men. No bow ties, unless they wear one all the time (their business associates should be able to confirm if this is true). The absolute worst scenario would be if someone smuggled a spinning bow tie into what should be a solemn occasion.

As for the ladies, I think black dresses. I like those black veils, too. They’re kind of sexy in a grieving sort of way. I can be flexible on the hem length depending on the season. No tube tops, though, no matter how hot it is, and no stripper shoes, unless the griever is actually a stripper and just getting off her shift.

Body viewings make people hungry, so a spread of cold cuts with cheese would be nice. But don’t let anyone make a plate and bring it up with them while they’re viewing me. In fact, I’d like a sneeze guard installed. Station an attendant nearby with some paper towels to discreetly Windex as necessary.

Speaking of the coffin, I’m thinking something traditional, like solid gold with elephant ivory handles. If somebody remarks that elephants are endangered, look disappointed in them and say, “He’s dead, man.”

The prep of my body is important, because it will determine everyone’s last thoughts about how handsome I am. I would like to have a slight smile, but not so much that it appears like I’m bragging that I’m dead and they still have to go through some horrible disease. And don’t make me wear the jersey of my favorite team or put any of their stupid paraphernalia in with me—they had their chance to win while I was alive. If I need a haircut, this is not the time to go for a new “look.”

Some people may want to touch me. Please shake up one of those hand warmers and wrap my hands around it so that they’re creeped out if they do. Don’t get ambitious and install a spring mechanism that makes me grab someone and not let go. Just the hand warmer.

Nobody in my family should perform the eulogy, because that would make it look like I don’t have friends. And no friends should do it, either, because I owe most of them money, and they might make a joke about it. Instead, hire an extremely attractive model no one knows. Everyone will wonder who this “mystery woman” is. Introduce her (mumble the name so it can’t be Googled) and when she’s in front of the gathered throng, she should shakily unwrap her “speech,” and then, before she starts, break down. Then get her out of there, fast.

If Mike Ditka is still alive, I’d like him to do a brief walk-through while muttering under his breath, “best ballplayer I ever saw.” If Ditka isn’t available, then Simon Cowell (“best singer”). But no autographs. Whose day is this, anyway?

The music should be heart-wrenching and despairing but hopeful. I’ve attached lyrics for a song I’ve written entitled, “How Will We Ever Do Anything Without You?” Please get Sheryl Crow to arrange and sing it. Don’t scrimp and get a Sheryl Crow look-alike, because people can tell.

Obviously, none of this will be free, which is why I’ve attached a list of friends who I don’t think I owe quite as much money to. Tell them I was just mentioning how much I liked them when I started to cough and stop breathing.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Bob Merlotti

Bob Merlotti is neither old nor sick, just planning ahead. He has written award-winning comedy for years and has won every major advertising award, including a few he has smelted himself. Visit his website at www.merlotticommabob.com and be sure to click on the black light. Why? Because it’ll blow your mind, that’s why.

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Guest Blog courtesy of Christina-Marie Wright (aka The Gonzo Mama)

Let’s admit it ladies – hair removal is no fun. I’m not even talking about our “down THERE hair…” I’m just talking about our legs. If you’re like me, you routinely find yourself in the shower, one leg propped up on the edge of the tub, with a deadly weapon in your hand, thinking: There must be a better way.

If there is a better way, I haven’t found it yet.

Sure, a myriad of products have promised to make my shaving woes a thing of the past, but seriously, it’s just propaganda. By propaganda, I mean villainous lies of Hitler’s Third Reich caliber – an organized campaign to promote the suffering of women throughout the world.

Consider the original Epilady. Do you remember that little coiled device of demonic origin? The coils were supposed to painlessly remove hair at the root as the unwitting user stroked it over her leg. If you missed the fun, let me boil down the net effect for you: The only way it could have been more painful would have required using red-hot coils from a toaster oven.

How about depilatories like Nair or Neet? I have been documented to have perhaps the most sensitive skin in the known universe. Nonetheless, I bravely decided to try such a product about three years ago. I am happy to report that the depilatory did, indeed, remove the hair from my legs, along with three layers of dermatological tissue. I am equally happy to report, today, that the skin grafts are hardly noticeable anymore.

Hot wax? Ouch. Cold wax? I tried it, using a do-it-your-damn-self home kit. I never did figure out how the wax could remove the hair from my legs, since I couldn’t remove the wax from my legs in the first place. It kept melting into a sticky, sap-like coating on my skin and never set up. I tried using a damp cloth to rub it off. I added soap. I soaked in a bubble bath. No luck. For a week, I had legs that doubled as fly strips.

Why do we subject ourselves to these inconvenient – and often painful – rituals, ladies? Why? Would it really be so bad to just… go for a “natural” look? Revolt, I say! Rebel, I urge you! Let your leg hair sprout. Encourage its growth by taking vitamins. Cultivate a shiny, healthy leg of hair!

Think about it! Did Eve have a razor in the Garden of Eden? Dare I suggest that Cleopatra may not have shaved her legs? (Well, okay, she was the self-proclaimed “king” of Egypt, but a rumored lusty lady nonetheless, who had no trouble attracting powerful men.) Joan of Arc was a badass. Do you really think, on her way to the battle, she was thinking about the stubble on her stems?

I don’t think so. Nor will I be stressing over my unshaved gams as I head to battle the oppressive laundry dictator.

Christina-Marie Wright is the mother of seven children and author of The Gonzo Mama newspaper column (TheGonzoMama.com), where she chronicles her adventures in “extreme parenting.” Wright specializes in parenting humor, political satire and cuttingly honest confessions about being a woman. Sadly, she still shaves her legs every single day.

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(Unless of Course They Don’t Win)

Guest Blog courtesy of Mike Reynolds

The pending arrival of the Olympics in Canada and our country’s subsequent success or failure has become all-consuming. Not just for me, but for every single one of us igloo-living, plaid shirt wearing Canadians.

It really should come as no surprise that come winter Olympic time, we all start to care about sports most of us have never heard of and that in a month, we will mostly forget exist.

We glue our eyes to the television screen as two men lie atop one another and fly screaming down an icy maze on a sled that doesn’t look sturdy enough to safely carry a twenty-pound beaver.

We watch with tears of pride in our eyes as human beings with the ability to turn off the sanity portion of their brain, willingly throw themselves hundreds of feet into the air on a pair of skis without a safety net, hoping they land safely, but still silently wanting to see a dramatic crash.

But most importantly, to Canadians at least, we sit in our luckiest chairs to watch grown men strap on armour and then skate about an ice rink, punishing a small piece of rubber with wooden sticks.

Hockey.

We’re crazy for it and might be the only ones in the world that are. If you live outside of Canada, chances are you at best have a casual, don’t need to know more about this sport, or an I know some National Hockey League teams and their uniforms are ugly kind of relationship with our national pastime. Here, we question the existence of God if even our local beer league team doesn’t win their midnight game against the neighbouring blue collared gentlemen.

So imagine what we’re like come Olympic time when our supposed ‘best’ come together to lace up the skates and take on the world.

We’re sick. We’re all losing weight as the first faceoff nears because we’re so nervous. As badly as we all want to see the outcome, we’re afraid to actually watch. As the NHL readies itself for the Olympic break, we pray that our Canadian boys get pulled from the lineup for fear they might take a puck to the ear or a stick to the nether regions.

We can’t lose to the Swedes, and we can’t lose to the Finns. God forbid we lose to the Americans, and our country will literally blow itself up if we come out on the wrong end against the Russians.

As hockey-friendly as these countries might be, their athletes haven’t nearly the same pressure put on them to return home with a gold medal around their neck or to not return at all.

I’m no different from my fellow Canadians. In fact, love hockey more than most. I have extra stores of spray paint and dog poop at the ready to redecorate the homes of our hockey heroes just in case the impossible happens and they let us down.

When it comes to hockey, it’s simply not enough to ‘give it your all,’ or ‘to leave it all on the ice.’ They’re heroes to us all, unless of course they happen to leave the gold medal in the hands of the Russians. In which case, they had better give it some thought on whether or not to change nationalities.

(Mike Reynolds is a writer from Ottawa who is well-known for writing in his sleep. Well-known that is by his wife and baby. He’s always looking for more writing opportunities and always looking for material with humour-me potential.)

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