The Ultimate Punk Gesture
By Kali
There is one thing that pisses me off so much I can hardly stand thinking about it: What is going to happen to me after I'm dead? I'm not talking about life after death. You die, you're gone. Only someone in severe denial would think anything else. Once I fly headfirst into a semi at 75 miles an hour, the play is over. I get one last bow at my funeral, then being forgotten is all that remains.
It's the funeral that gets to me. Once the remains get scraped off the pavement, there is going to be massive rehabilitation, and the idea just makes my stomach twist, because I'm not going to able there to defend myself. It's my worst nightmare. Isn't it yours? They take the earrings out, they put some makeup on the tattoo, they put you in a suit, and cut all your hair the same length. Then someone who never knew you will make all the people you hate feel comfortable by telling them you were never the person they were afraid you were. I cringe when I think about that. I want to leave as I've lived: bitter, filled with malice, damning the hypocrites and idiots and self-serving pompous asses. It was my play, it is my curtain call, and I want to moon the goddamn audience.
There are a few escapes: You could go out in some way that doesn't leave any remains, like flying TWA, but that only saves you the indignity of being dressed like a clown while you're lied about. You could write a will, and say you don't want a funeral, but your next of kin aren't obligated to respect your wishes. Maybe they will, but do you really want to count on the day you die being the first time?
Besides, why waste such a great opportunity? All the people you know, including all your relatives, will be there. Your boss will come. Some of your teachers and professors will be there. Every cockroach consciousness in your cosmos will be exuding greasiness, and looking at your corpse with their satisfied little bug eyes. What better time to jump out of your coffin, and spray around the intellectual bug killer?
(It just occurred to me that if you could stage your own death, you could literally jump out of your coffin at your own funeral, but I figure that would be pretty difficult unless you live in a backwoods area where the town drunk doubles as the coroner. Even the L.A. coroner can figure out when someone isn't really dead, and besides, they do surgery on your corpse without anesthesia. You would have to be really dedicated to go through that, though I don't want to discourage you if that's what you really want.)
What I am actually suggesting is a last gesture from beyond the grave; one final "fuck you"; a lingering finger from a dead hand. You write a vicious rant against all the Cheez-Whiz personalities you know and you get someone you trust to read it at your funeral in place of a eulogy. You will have your opinion delivered when your subjects can't really walk out without violating all the taboos and conventions they bovinely worship. They're stuck, they're offended, and they'll talk about what a punk you were forever. What's not to love? So here are a few tips for delivering a few choice final words.
The Speaker: Whoever you get to deliver your eulogy must be the most punk person you know; someone who regards your disgust with complacent human sheep and cows as right and natural, rather than psychopathic. This must be someone who thinks the only logical response to egregious stupidity is derision, or giving into homicidal impulse. His or her heart should swell with malice, spite and vulgarity on your behalf, because the people in that church are going to be more shocked than they have ever been. It would be a good idea to choose a speaker who is large, quick, or both, as someone may try to have them physically removed once they get really offensive. Remind your Voice, perhaps in a prologue, to gain control of the P.A. system before starting, or they may be drowned out or switched off.
The Spoken Word: Keep your eulogy short. Don't give your audience enough time to realize what is going on, get enraged and form a lynch mob. Your speaker loses something if he has to scream your anathemas while dashing around the altar. If your speaker runs out of text before the audience comes out of shock, she can improvise and enlarge on the themes you've already presented. Of course, one exquisite possibility is to have your speaker say to the audience: "This is what (insert your label here) thinks of you", show them a blank piece of paper, and walk off.
Make your words true, and make them count. Specifics make your rant more interesting. If your highly popular 5th grade teacher was a complacent cow whose greatest interests were sitcoms and making sure you all got properly brainwashed, say so. Curse your patronizing pig of a boss for his condescending pretense that his underpaid, exploited flunkies are "family." Tell the psychologist your parents sent you to that you would probably still be alive if it wasn't for his meddling. Inform your geology professor that you have told everyone he knows that he drinks himself stupid and fucks his students on those weekend field trips, and that they laugh inwardly every time he gives them that fake professional act. Burst their bubbles.
There is one downside to this delightful scenario. You won't get to see Dad's face as you tell him you think he's a cocksmoker for his buying his floozy second wife cars and furs instead of paying your child support, but so what? None of this is going to matter to you then. The pleasure is in the anticipation: Enjoy it. It will keep you sane.