When I’m dead and hit the ground, make sure they don’t bury me. I don’t want to be in a wooden box. I can’t stand the thought of of being confined six feet under the ground. I can’t even think of the people trampling over my gravestone. I’m letting you waste your money on a coffin, either. So don’t bury me. I don’t want to be put in the ground. But if it comes to the point that you must bury me, bury me only three feet below the ground, because six is just too low.

And I don’t want to be embalmed either. I don’t want someone to pump me with chemicals and leave me in some state of an undertaker’s experiment.

When I’m dead, don’t let them cremate me. I never liked fire. I don’t want my ashes on your mantle. That’s just creepy, son. What if someone spills the vase you keep me in? But if it comes to the point that you must cremate me, bury my ashes. And three feet, not six feet.

So if you’re not gonna bury me or cremate me, what are you gonna do? Well, I’ll tell you what. I want you to take me and put me in my boat that I keep moored on the dock. Tie my body down and cover me with a tarp or something. Then untie my boat from the dock and let me and my boat float off into the horizon of the ocean. Okay?

You can have a meeting of everyone to send me and my boat off, but I don’t want you to call it a funeral. Instead, I want you to call it a “fun-ral”. I never understood why the word ”fun” was in “funeral.” Shouldn’t it be fun, then? Funerals are depressing. So when I’m dead, hire a clown for my “fun-ral”. He doesn’t have to even do anything or say anything- as far as I’m concerned he can simply just stand up front by the boat. But if none of you are happy, yes, get him to tell some jokes and make some balloon animals. I don’t want any of you to be depressed when I’m gone.

Don’t dress me up for my “fun-ral”. Leave me in my clothes. And don’t let anyone put makeup on face. I’ve lived my whole life without makeup on, so why would you put it on me when I leave?

If anyone wears black to my “fun-ral”, tell them to go home and change into something nice and casual. I just won’t have depression at my “fun-ral”. It’s supposed to be happy. Don’t dress up for my “fun-ral”, wear your normal clothes.

And don’t have a viewing. I never understood those. It’s just awkward. But if you need to say to goodbye to me, say goodbye. Just not by looking at my decomposing body.

Instead of reading passages from the bible, get the pastor to read from the joke book I keep on my nightstand. It always made me laugh. Maybe you could get the clown to read it.

I think I’ve made this clear already, but I want no one to cry at my “fun-ral”. Not even the clown. But if it does come to the point that you must cry, make them tears of laughter and joy.

If it comes to the point that you must bury, burn, or cry, I feel that it means I have left this world without ever making my mark on it.