She called me earlier today to say that she was watching The View -- right away you know she's mental --and the great minds that comprise their panel, among them the moronic Joy Behar and the arrogant, overbearing, haughty and self-important Whoopie Goldberg, were discussing what music they want played at their funerals and so she called to tell me what her pick is for when she dies, an event she assured me would not happen "for a very long time from now." (She's 82, has a colostomy bag, is confined to a wheelchair and is in very poor health.) It was very important to her that I know this since I am her only living next of kin and supposedly will make sure her final wishes are carried out.
Unfortunately she forgot the name of the song and so I hung on the phone while she searched her mind, such as it is, for that information. The process took long enough for me to dry my hair, having just gotten out of the shower when she called. Finally she remembered. It was "Another One Bites the Dust," her choice because "it would be funny." I didn't tell her that should the situation arise there would be no music involved, and also I am pretty sure she will outlive me as my life has played out under her dark and imposing shadow since Day One and God is perverted enough to make it my whole entire life.
It got me thinking and I decided I couldn't care less about what music, if any, is played at whatever sort of ritual or ceremony takes place when I die. Who cares? This is just one reason I never watch The View.
