Before The Eulogies, A Word From The Deceased
by Wayne Lerner
Good morning and welcome to my funeral. Or should I say good afternoon?
Obviously, I don’t know what time it is, but I’m sure that this service is starting late because of you know who. Yes, the lady in black sitting in the front row. Some things never change. Regardless, let’s proceed.
I want to thank all of you for arriving here at the funeral home as I requested. One person per car, even if you are a couple. After the service, please proceed, single file, to the cemetery for my interment.
I know that this may have been an inconvenience for some of you, but, for others, a few moments of peace. Wanting to make a final statement, we will assemble the longest processional this area has ever seen. People will stare, thinking:
“Oh my gosh, is that the president of some big company?”
“That person has to be particularly important! Look at the number of cars!”
“I didn’t know POTUS was going to be buried here!”
“Who the fuck is that asshole? I’m going to be stuck here for hours and I gotta pee!”
But then, as they Google who died, they will realize it was just me. Yep, fooling around, making a mockery of death. When, in fact, the processional they see is a prelude to a party.
So sit back and enjoy the next few moments as the service will not take long, I promise you. It may be filled with some tears, but not many, as I want this to be a celebration of life, not a grieving over death.
For those of you who are not MOTs (members of the tribe), there will be several things which occur which may need some explanation.
Following the gravesite ceremony, everyone has been invited over to my house for the Shiva. The Shiva is the occasion, after the formal funeral and the burial, when, traditionally, people come together to ring their hands, cry their eyes out and moan and groan about their loved one who passed away. This has been going for, I estimate, 6000 years. It is built into our genetics. That and eating to salve our emotional wounds.
This is not what’s going to happen at my Shiva. Mine will be an occasion for people to come together, especially those who have not seen each other for a long time, to reminisce about the good old days and gorge themselves on the enormous amount of deli food and sweets that is being laid out on tables as we sit here today. You don’t like herring or lox and bagels? No problem. How about corned beef, roast beef or turkey?
While eating, you’re likely to hear such things as:
“My god, you look wonderful. When did you have plastic surgery and who did it?”
“You don’t look a day older than the last time I saw you. When was it? Oh yeah, at the Goldberg funeral, 15 years ago.”
“And who is this young person with you? How old are you, dear? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pinch your cheek so hard.”
“No valet parking! Can you imagine! Cheap!”
“Excuse me, I’m trying to get at the chopped liver and danish.”
It’s just the usual patter which occurs when people talk with food in their mouths.
At the graveside ceremony, watch my coffin go into the ground and, following the lead of others, shovel dirt on top of it in line with religious tradition. That’s a sign of respect. Say a few words of prayer in the language of your choice and smile at the relationship we had. Then, please enjoy all of the food and drink at the Shiva. If you do all of the above, take some goodies home with you via the doggy bags stationed near the front door.
At the Shiva, tell stories about our interactions…funny stories, ironic stories, make up stories, so members of my family can rejoice in my life and not grieve over my demise. Going home, I want people to be in a good mood, not forlorn.
Think about this, like my Irish friends do, as a celebration of my life. Make this day a party. Then, surely (“Don’t call me, Shirley!”), people will talk about me for a long time to come.
My wife, the gorgeous woman sitting there in the front row, dressed all in black, is a bit upset that I died before her. But, just a bit. She was a wild, single lady when I met her so we had a deal. If I go before her, she would place black bunting over the doorways of our house, which would remain in place for three days. After three days, she will remove the black bunting and then click on J-Date, looking for her next man. And, yes, I approve.
Kids, I’m so glad to see you here even though the boys are unshaven as usual and probably wearing jeans. I’m grateful that you are going to say the prayer over the dead, the Kaddish, at the gravesite. If you don't, the Bank of Lerner will close out your account.
My five grandchildren, I love you more than I can express at the moment, obviously. I’m sorry that I didn’t stay around long enough to enjoy your escapades, your joys and help you with some of your problems. You and your parents will always be in my heart and soul.
You folks in the Chapel, please fill in the gaps of knowledge that you have about me and tell them to my family. That way, I will live another lifetime or two from your stories. I’ve always wanted to be an urban legend!
And, to my grand dogs, I’m going to miss playing with you, too. Even Rizzo, the cub dog.
Honey, now you can get the dog you’ve talked about for so long. Don’t forget to walk him regularly and don’t name him Wayne.
OK Rabbi, it’s your turn. Take it from here. But be quick.
There’s food to eat and liquor to drink back at the house and I’m not getting any younger!
To each of you, L’Chaim. Long life.