quarta-feira, 14 de junho de 2006

The Standard Catholic Church Funeral Pack

Being alive means a lot of things, one of which is you’re going to die.
Dying is an important moment in life, whether you believe in heaven or reincarnation, a heavenly orgy with 70 virgins or nothing at all, it’s a big deal, and we should have some say on the manner in which we are laid to rest.
Sadly we don’t, at least not the average dead person (filthy rich people don’t count). There is very little about your own funeral you can really control, and I don’t mean just because you’re dead. You get the standard ceremony your community’s religion dictates and that’s it, instant satisfaction for everybody except the dead guy.

I live in Portugal, so I guess I get the catholic church funeral pack - a priest I’ve never seen in my life telling everybody what an amazing, fabulous and unbelievably good guy I was; at least five really old ladies no one knows crying their eyes out; me dressed in a suite I never wore; a statue of a guy pinned to a cross hanging on a wall; and tons of flowers stinking the place up more than my rotting corpse. Not the farewell party I had in mind.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the church’s commitment on saving my soul and renting me a nice little place to rot, but if I may, I would rather have a funeral with lesbian strippers doing a coffin dance, a half-naked girl band singing Queen´s greatest hits and a barbecue.

Does that sound more fun than being stuck in a dark room with a dead guy or what?

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