Bouncy Bouncy
Lord, She Was Lovey-Dovey

You Heard Me

Here it is.

When I die, I want my body to be burned up and my ashes scattered on the beach. Save a few grains of my remains in an envelope or a Glad Bag if you must have a souvenir of my person, but I don't want the majority of the corporeal ex-me to be cooped up in a plastic container or a fancy urn or a handcarved box or a paper lunch bag.

Nope. Unto dust I shall return, and I want to get back there quickly once my brain calls quittin' time. Just release the bits and pieces back into nature and I'll look down (or perhaps up, who knows?) and smile, and then I'll get on with whatever it is you get on with after your spirit steps through the door. If I'm joining a choir invisible, I sing alto. Badly.

Joe already knows this, but if he croaks before I do, I want to make sure that everyone else knows it too. And what better way than to post it on the internet, so all dozen of my faithful readers and all two dozen of my accidental Googlers know my last wishes.

Heh - "Save a few grains of my remains" would make a good line in a blues tune, but I haven't got the time or the inclincation to write the rest of it. If you do, send me a copy and come to the after-party. You can sing it there.

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