I’m sick of funerals.  The older I get the more often I seem to be going to them.  They serve as a constant reminder that at some point that’s going to be us in the casket.  There’s no getting around it.  No hiding from it.  It’s the biggest thing we deal with as human beings.  The big D.  However, I’ve noticed a slight change in the way funerals are being done today.  The funerals I went to when I was young were much more somber occassions.  Quiet occasions with somber music.  The preacher would lay down the typical message about how the person wasn’t really gone and give a little talk about the person.  People came and tried not to weep.  Family members wept at will.  This is how they went.  Today’s funeral usually has a big screen above the casket with a barage of the persons pictures flashing by.  A few of the person’s favorite songs play during the photo montage as we watch.  I think  this is a good thing.  You get to see the person as they really were in pictures.  It’s the music, I think, that’s changed.  People are much more comfortable with all kinds of music these days.  So it’s resonable to beleive that any music is acceptable in a church at a funeral.  I think this is a good thing for the most part.   I don’t want to hear any gangsta rap at a funeral though.  I can’t image I ever will, but you never know. 

        The last funeral I went to is what brought all this to my mind.  It was a typical funeral.  Everything was going normally until the last song.  The song itself wasn’t the issue.  It was the good old traditional church song “when the saints go marching in.”  It was the singer that got me.  The singer was Jerry Lee Lewis.  Jerry Lee brings a lot to a song and I’m telling you he was happy that the saints were marching in.  He was ripping that piano to shreds.  I could just see him kicking the piano bench behind him and pounding on the keys.  I had conflicting feelings.  On the one hand the song was great.  I was digging it.  Me and Jerry were on the same wave length.  I felt like kicking off  my boots and dancing around between the pues  in my socks.  On the other hand this was a funeral.  A place to come and say goodbye and try to be a comfort to the family of the deceased.  Not a place for a sock hop.  No matter what any preacher says it’s hard to be happy at a funeral.  It’s nearly impossible unless you are the only heir to a fortune left to you by someone everybody hated.  I’m guessing this isn’t the case for many of us.  Nonetheless, I was conflicted.  I was glad that this song was playing, but I felt it made everyone too happy.  At least too happy for a funeral.  I don’t know.  I’m conflicted about what I’m conflicted about now.  Who says you have to be sad at a funeral— not me, I guess.  If that was the guys favorite song, then who cares.  Ok, I’m not conflicted anymore.  Any music is ok for a funeral.  There I said it.  Let it be so. 

         My friends I were talking a few days after the funeral and we were discussing our own funerals.  How we would like them to be.  The music we might want.  How it would all go down.  Most everyone’s ideas were similar except for Janice’s.  She said she would have all female pallbearers.  I thought this very interesting being that I’ve never seen a woman pallabearer.  I don’t know if this is a rule or something.  I’m sure it isn’t.  It’s carrying something that might be heavy.  That’s one of the few things we have on women anymore.  We can generally carry heavier things than they can.  It’s not much, but we’re still ahead of them there.  I asked her why she wanted this and she gave me the best answer to a question I’ve gotten in a long time.  She said that men didn’t want to take her out when she was alive, so she’d be damned if they take her out after she’s dead.  Beautiful.  You can’t really argue with that.  It’s her damn funeral.  She’ll have it her way.  That’s the way it ought to be.

     I was watching this woman psychic on T.V. and it occurred to me that it must be tough being married to a psychic.  She was sitting on a couch with her husband while the interview was in progress.   I got to watching the husband.  He looked like a man doing his best to keep his mind blank.  He blankly stared into the camera.  You could see right through his eye balls to a brain that was kicked into neutral.  There’s no way he could be having the usual guy thoughts.  Guys thoughts are disgusting.  I believe this to be true.  I’ve talked to some of my friends and they’ve told me of their disgusting thoughts.  We don’t mean them to be disgusting but they tend to gravitate in that direction.  We’re either thinking about beating the hell out of someone and taking their woman or we’re just thinking about their woman.  We’re disgusting.  It’s a fact.  This poor guy was making sure he didn’t have those normal guy thoughts.  I bet his wife has been tuned into his every thought since the day they met.  He’s learned his lesson.  Save the normal thoughts for when she’s asleep.  He did look a little tired.  It’s now our fault.  We’re modern cave men.  We have these thoughts as a reminder of our not so distance past.  We think them now.  We don’t act on them.  We’re modern man, HomoSapienSissy.  A general rule of mine is never marry a psychic.  You  really don’t want your wife knowing what you’re thinking.  I promise. 

        My next rule is simple-never say anything about anything that might make someone think you know something about anything.  Knowing something will always get you into trouble.  For instance, if you know how to fix something someone is going to ask you to fix theirs.  It’s just the way it works.   Pretty soon you’re wasting your time fixing something for somebody else when they should be fixing it or paying somebody to fix it for them.  If someone asks you if you know anything about something that might need fixed you better say no.  As a matter of fact you better say you’ve never heard of the thing they need help with.  It gets a little tricky if they say something that’s pretty common like a car or something.  You’ve can always claim you’ve never heard of that brand before or you can say something like the last time you tried to work on a car it exploded and burnt to the ground.  There’s always a way around knowing something.  Mostly it’s just pretending you don’t.  People may think you are helpless.  This can work in  your favor.  Maybe they can fix something of  yours.   General rule number two- you don’t know nothing about nothing. 

           The last piece of general knowledge gold is-never give advice.  I realize I’m giving advice here but you can trust me.  I wouldn’t lie to you.  If you give advice someone might actually take it.  You don’t  want that.  If it works out for them other people will want advice.  You’ll be wasting your time giving out free advice to anyone and everyone.   People get paid to give out advice.  They’re the ones that have to live with the consequences.  That’s why they’re paid.  You get no compensation for your advice if it’s good or bad.  Why do it?  I know it makes us feel smart and important to give out advice but it’s not worth it.  If your daughter wants your advice about the nose-ringed, purple haired, dofus she’s dating don’t give her any.  What if he’s the next Bill Gates or Jerry Springer.  You don’t know.  Let her find that out on her own.  She’ll be ok, probably.  Think about it.  Someone actually doing what you say to do.  That’s crazy.  That’s scarey.  I can’t be trusted with the things I tell myself to do.  Never give advice of any kind, good or bad.

       Is there a link between genetics and being a smart ass?  Surely there is.  I definitely know there’s a link between being a dumb ass and genetics.  That one is all too clear with examples galore.  I’m unsure about the smart-ass connection.  It’s the old nature versus nurture debate.  Or is it?  I wasn’t raised to be a smart-ass and yet here I am.  I’m a bona fide smart-ass.  My Dad was a mild smart-ass.  It’s  fine line.  He would smart-ass on occasion, but no more than the normal person would.  I don’t think that qualified him, or anyone else, as a bona fide smart-ass.  I, on the other hand, do a lot of smart-assing.  I can’t help it.  I have a few friends who also qualify.  I think the main trait in being a smart-ass is when you can only think of smart-ass replies to any comment.  Maybe everyone has these smart-ass thoughts and they have more self control.  I don’t know.  I can only speak about my particular smart-ass mind.  I’ll give you an example.

       I was online having a conversation with a group of people.  I had just met these folks so I was trying to not be a smart-ass right off the bat.  One of the first comments I read was this lady talking about feeding her kitten.  This sounded like a complete euphemism for sex to me but I refrained from typing anything.  I mean feeding your kitten, come on.  Then out of the blue this guy says he’s going to pet his puppy.  Pet His Puppy!  Come on now.  This is getting out of hand but I’m not typing anything.  I’m determined to not be a smart-ass.  Maybe these people are really doing what they say they are doing.  Then this other lady asks if his puppy is a wiener dog.  She says she loves wiener puppies.  I can’t take it anymore.  How can I just sit  here and just read this stuff?  Wouldn’t anyone have smart-ass replies to these things being said?  I finally couldn’t take it.  I asked the guy if he uses one or two hands  when he pets his puppy.  I told the first lady to let the guy feed her kitten so he wouldn’t have to pet his puppy and I told the second lady that the best way to pet a wiener pup is to use long slow smooth strokes at first then quick ones later.  Nothing was typed for a moment.  I was getting nervous.  These were pretty good folks because eventually they laughed and joined in the word play.  I was relieved that I didn’t offend anyone and yes they really did have pets that needed to be attended to.  It was me all along.  Me and my smart-ass mentality. 

       All would have been fine if I had dropped it right then and there.  Unfortunately, the first lady said something that begged for a smart-ass reply.  She said she hated wiener dogs and that she was going to train her cat to bite them.  Now please.  She’s going to train her cat to bite wieners.  Please.  How can I resist this.  How can any human resist the temptation to reply in a smart-ass manner.  Dammit.   I’m only human.  I said the only thing I could in this situation.  I asked her if she was going to teach by example.  I know this was nasty.  I know this was vulgar.  I can’t  help it.  My genes were vibrating  intensely.  See, right there, what I just said.  Can you resist thinking something bad?  Can you resist the urge to respond in a smart-ass way?    ”My genes were vibrating.”  I’m trying to resist.  I can’t.  It sounds like I need to go pet my puppy or feed the kitten.  There, I smart-assed myself.  Are you happy?

     I’ve given an enormous amount of thought to dying and the afterlife and such things as that.  I can honestly say I don’t know what happens to  you when you die.  I can honestly say I don’t know if there is an afterlife.  Neither can you if you’re truthful.  We don’t really know.  There will be all kinds of people who claim that they know for sure, but we know in the back of our minds that ain’t true.  Lot’s of people take refuge in religion for these answers.  I think that’s great.  I say use whatever gets you through the night.  I have my own beliefs of which I will not be sharing.  I think there’s way too much sharing these days.  Everyone wants to tell you their damn beliefs.  It usually ends in a fight or trouble of some kind.  Why bother.  Be  happy with your beliefs, but keep them to yourself.  It’ll make the world a happier place, though that is not the subject of this particular sermon.  The subject I wish to gesticulate about (I don’t really know what “gesticulate” means.  It just seemed like a really good word to put right there.  Makes me look smart)  is the existence of an afterlife in and of itself,  irrespective of personal religious views.   

        There needs to be an afterlife.   There are people I need to see again.  One of them just passed away last week.  He and I were having this great conversation two days before he died.  The problem is,  it wasn’t finished.  It was a “to-be- continued” conversation.  The guy I had this conversation with was David, my father-in-law and I valued his opinions greatly.  David spent most of his life as a college professor.  He knew a lot of stuff.  He was very smart.  Our last conversation revolved around the state of the world.  David knew exactly what happened and how it was ruined.  I hate to say exactly who he was blaming, because I don’t want anyone to get confused and start to think I believe this in any way.  I’m going to say it anyway.  Don’t get mad at me.  I’m simply repeating.  He said that women had ruined the world.  He was tired however, so he told me he would explain it all to me the next time we spoke.  We never spoke again.  I really wanted to hear this, not that any amount of arguement and evidence could make me believe it, but because it was going to be a fun discussion rife with wit and laughter.  I’ve been racking my brain trying decide what David was going to say.  What his examples were going to be.  I haven’t come up with anything yet.  At least I haven’t come up with anything I’m comfortable writing about here.  We had lot’s of those  kinds of discussions over the years.  They were always fun and you almost always came away thinking about things differently.  You might not have been persuaded, but at least you got to test what you believe.  That’s what was good about talking with David.  You better be able to defend what you believe or he would eat you alive.  There needs to be an afterlife.  I need to finish that conversation. 

         Last year about this time a good friend of mine died.  He died way too young.  His name was Rocky Carlton and he was the most creative human I’ve ever met.  He wrote songs and  poetry.   Everyone that knew him always believed he could be ultra famous.  He always made sure that never happened.  Only I and a select few friends of his got to hear his creations.  He was truly talented.  It would be nice to see my friend again.  I’d like to hear what he’s created since we last met and I don’t care in what form.  We could re-incarnate as dung beatles for all I care  as long as we could catch up on things.  I don’t want to have 99  virgins.  I’ve never understood how that works anyway.  It seems like much more of a hassle than anything.  Can you imagine asking 99 women if you can go have a beer with an old buddy.  That might take forever,  literally.  I guess golden streets and harps would be fine as long as they go easy on the harps.  I’ve never heard a harp song you could dance to.  Like I say, it doesn’t matter.  As long as it exists and I can have those conversations.