For Crying Out Loud

At my funeral, everyone is to be absolutely miserable.

By that, I don’t mean “Oh, boohoo, Martin is gone,” and then asking about the buffet. I mean men and women collapsing into crumpled heaps of flesh, wailing as in days of old until it’s time to slosh out the exits in tear-soaked shoes. Catatonia is also acceptable. If either state is beyond reach, don’t bother showing up.

A couple generations ago, I wouldn’t have had to bring up such a thing as how to behave at my funeral. Back then, people wisely didn’t bring up much of anything. What was there to talk about? Life was dark and horrible and everybody knew it. A funeral was another occasion to weep over the ultimate futility of it all, not a time to break open the Moet & Chandon.

I don’t know if anyone close to you has dropped dead recently, but if not you should check out modern modes of grieving. Today, it’s all about “celebrating a life” as opposed to crying over the stiff. One funeral I attended showcased singing, clapping, laughing and a lot of bright-colored clothing. Except for the laughing part, I thought I was at a taping of “Up With People.”

Over my dead body. Here are a few pointers I’d like everyone to keep in mind once I board the night train to the big adios:

Music: None. No theme songs like “Moonshadow” or “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I don’t care if Elton John begs to rewrite “Candle in the Wind” for me. My final exit is not to become a foot-tappin’, knee-slappin’ good time. (The singing ban extends to graveside visits, too.)

Food: None. No snacks or refreshments of any kind. Even for pregnant women, children and the elderly.

Pharmacology: None. Check your meds at the door. Be prepared for blood and urine tests. In fact, as soon as my death becomes known, everyone should stop taking their Prozac, Xanax, whatever. I want a crowd free of mood stabilizers, ready to howl their full-throated lamentations up to the heavens. Afterward, I don’t care if you go home and snort Ajax.

Floral: This should be obvious by now, but none. No plant life. Nothing living. If trees are visible from the windows, the shades should be drawn.

Dress: None. Just kiddin’. I’m not dead yet, I can make jokes. Everyone should be in black, except for maybe white shirts and a tasteful, dark-colored tie for men, otherwise it’ll look like a movie premiere.

Location: Definitely indoors. Somewhere difficult to find; a suspect neighborhood would be preferable. A cramped hall or auditorium with loud, buzzing fluorescent lights. Under no circumstances should the service be held outdoors in a peaceful, sunlit meadow.

Eulogy: Short and bleak. Just ask yourself WWAGGD? (What would the American Gothic Guy Do?)

A couple sub-categories are in order:

Language: I haven’t “passed away.” I’m not “gone.” I didn’t “buy a pine condo.” And I’m not the dearly departed either. I’m Dead Marty. Dead as a door nail. Stone dead. Dead, dead, dead. The only instance where euphemisms can be used is if they are uttered in Latin.

Half-Empty: Anyone who tries to wring some optimism out of my death with comments like “he’s finally at peace” or “he’s in a better place” will have their Social Security number and mother’s maiden name posted on Google. I’m trapped in a box and the worms are picking up my scent. I don’t see the need to look on the bright side.

Humor: No poignant jokes or wisecracks while choking back the tears. In particular, no amusing stories about my annoying, but ultimately endearing, idiosyncrasies. Like how I drink diet sodas for breakfast or gambled away my 401(k) on Internet poker. However, under certain circumstances, laughter is permissible. Laughter, that is, of the insane variety. Think Dr. Frankenstein after bringing life to his creature or Robert De Niro in the theater scene in “Cape Fear.” Because if my death causes just one person to go mad, then my life wasn’t in vain.

Psychoanalysis: I paid someone in life for this and look how that turned out. So, don’t try to sum me up with some small thing you once saw me do like give my coat to a homeless guy. “That’s the kind of guy Martin was, give you the coat off his back.” Not even close. I never did that, which actually probably sums me up pretty good. But how is that story going to sound? I saw Martin not give his coat to a homeless guy?

Narcissism: Don’t turn the eulogy into how sad YOU are about MY death. I’m dead, not you. Does everything have to be about you?

Circumstances of Death: I know I’m going to get my ticket punched in some horribly embarrassing way. Like hanging Christmas lights or the way Elvis died. (If you don’t know how that was, don’t bother showing up either.) I want no mention of how I died. Instead, let it be known that I’d been bravely battling a long, painful illness, which I never spoke of because I didn’t want to be a burden to others.

Circumstances/Theme Song Corollary: Just covering the bases here, but what if the circumstances of my death closely match the events of a pop song? Like, let’s say I was minding my own business in Georgia the night the lights went out and somebody shot me, an innocent man. Don’t play that song. Ditto in case I perish in a nightclub fire. Don’t even think of spinning “Disco Inferno.”

Burial: Up to this point, my funeral has been all talk and no action--until now. Nothing will bring home the misery like having to dig my grave. That’s right, everyone will be handed a shovel and strict instructions to make plenty of room in the earth for me. Most plots are 6 feet deep, but I think 12 feet will do nicely.

Don’t like it? Hey, it’s my funeral.