It's My Funeral and I'll Laugh If I Want To.

Occasionally I've been known to muse on my own demise and subsequent funeral.

Eidelweiss thinks this makes me weird. (At least I don't make lampshades out of baby skins).

(Should I die expectedly unexpectely tonight from being stabbed by Humphrey  an aneurism I expect my loyal Blogsters will ensure my final wishes are granted or I. Shall. Haunt. You.  Humphrey already has an Exorcist on speed dial).

So, this is how I would like my funeral to proceed:

There will be:  A ferris wheel,  face-painting, a bouncy castle, a sushi bar, Italian baristas, George Clooney (my God, he's single again...I may just holiday on Lake Como this year....), naked wrestling in chocolate mudcake, a fountain of any New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and me in a coffin in the likeness of Barbie.
For music I think a Mexican with a big sombrero and a ukelele (?) and a stout Italian man with a handlebar moustache and a piano accordian. There must be much dancing in circles.
Guests will dress in floral kaftans (the women can wear togas). Marshmallows shall be toasted over a the funeral pyre bonfire. Much gayness and frolicsomeness will be had by all.

Of course, being a realist, I know that something will go wrong.  Hopefully it won't be my putrifying corpse busting the hinges off Barbie. No I think it will be something all the more....gossip-worthy.   Oh, I know!!!
The birds are singing, the sun is shining and Aunty Helen is bouncing on the rubber castle....all are enjoying the flabulicious funeral......until....

The eulogy.

During the eulogy - given by George Clooney who is heartbroken that he the world has lost his only love a truly fabulous chick -- Humphrey pales and looks aghast.  It is not the sobbing of George that shocks our hero  H, but the arrival of a Fed Ex van.
The driver of  said van struggles with a large cardboard box punctured with multiple holes.  
"Parcel for Mr Humphrey from Mr H Hefner?" puffs the van driver swaggering with his clipboard toward the bazillions of eye-dabbing mourners.
"You're a day EARLY," hisses Humphrey.

And that, dear friends, was how Humphrey's friends, and my own, were introduced Candy - his new bride.  I say "new" because"  this 20-year-old model had been discarded by Hugh.  Candy had been superceded by the 16-year-old Lola version that the octogenarian had just moved into his Mansion. Candy was found in the bargain bin of the online catalogue.

Ok. So I may have been pushing the boundaries with the whole bouncy castle thing. It is more than likely that my funeral - with no intervention from my Blog Buddies - will end up like this:

Humphrey, a man of simple tastes and understated elegance (emphasis on understated), would probably prefer me to be wrapped in a linen shroud and buried under a bluebush.  The bush would be adjacent to the homestead orange tree because we all know how orange trees love a corpse (don't ask - it's a whole other post).  Whilst understated elegance is an admirable attribute, Humphrey would actually be more concerned about the understated impact a shroud-in-hole funeral would have on his malnourished wallet.   Floral arrangements will be supplied by Nature....in the form of naturally occuring bluebush, saltbush, mulga and cabbage trees, carelessly arranged as God intended.  This understatedly elegant affair would likely be BYO (beer and snags), oh and don't forget a cushion because the lid of your esky may get a bit hard to sit on during the service.
The most moving tribute will be the handing-out, post interrment, of hot pink fly swats, the heads of which would be embossed with my smiling face (ala Alessi's Dr Skud). Perhaps a fitting reminder (to Humphrey) of his dearly departed maggot life-partner.

Then the Fed Ex van will arrive....

Sheeeeee's Baaaaaaaaack!

I owe you a sincere, most grovelsome apology.  If any of you are still out there that is, my Preshuses.  You may, or may not, have been aware that Charlotte has been MIA.  The reasons for this may be many and varied and could be any one of the following:

A)Kidnapped by dwarf violinists and secreted in a former war bunker near Kiev where I was bludgeoned with wet teatowels.

B)Suffered a bout of amnesia an forgot who I....who....whooo....what was I saying?

C) Was whisked away by Humphrey on a three month cruise to Antarctica where we became ice-locked.     Humphrey selflessly offered himself......and was eaten.

D)Decided to take part in a walking pilgrimage to Mecca and took a wrong turn somewhere near Turkmeninistan.

E)In a fit of pique I sold my house, children and husband and bought a shack in Marble Bar where I now live with 47 cats and a squirrel.

F)Have been in a coma....on my loungeroom floor....for three months.....and the kids didn't even notice while they hunted for the remote.

G)Humphrey decided to act upon my whining and sent me to a fat farm...or his version of it.....chained in the shed cellar for three months. Much to his amazement I actually came out fatter. My ancestors thrived during  ice-ages and famines due to the ability to get fat on thinking about roast mammoth ears.  I have taken this ability to a new level.  The rats helped.

H) I roamed the wilderness (south of the homestead) for forty days and forty nights in search of enlightenment and found frostbite and a couple of hundred straggler sheep.

I) I have been languishing at Her Majesty's pleasure after being arrested for trying to hide under the bishop's robes at Will's and Kate's wedding (but that's another post).

J)I was abducted by aliens and now speak *^^_+ fluently. I can also spot a worm hole at 545 light-years.

H) I'm basically a lazy F*ck and have been so damn busy studying and caring for my Bratlings that my future famosity as a Blog Queen took a back seat to mediocrity in a backwater.


So there you have it.  Take your pick. Personally I go for "E" - it has a kind of appeal.  Or maybe "E" blended with "C" because I've always wondered what Humphrey would taste like sauteed wanted to go to Antarctica.