11-022

The Last Laugh is on Me

While my husband Bob and I were walking through a cemetery he said, “Want to know what I want on my epitaph?”

“No.”

Apparently he thought I said, “YES! TELL ME!” He went on, “I’d rather be at Burger King, but then again, that’s why I’m here in the first place.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I get goofy when I don’t sleep. I was thinking that dead people never hear their eulogy. So I wrote mine.

I woke Bob. “People should hear the truth instead of fairy tales about what an amazing person I was.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Saralee, a fifty-five time Pulitzer Prize winning columnist will be missed by everyone in the universe . . . and elsewhere.

Bob interrupted, “I guess you haven’t been sleeping.”

I continued:

Known as the Mother Teresa of the 21^st century, Saralee gave millions to the neediest. Insisting on anonymity, she disguised herself as Oprah.

Saralee is the only psychiatrist who could rehabilitate Charlie Sheen. At his first session, he swaggered into her office and chain-smoked cigarettes. He just sat there singing lyrics such as: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me.” By his last session, he had quit smoking (anything) and was knitting pink booties for his poodle. He left her office singing, “I’m a little teapot.”

By the age of seven, Saralee received a Lifetime Achievement Award for her autobiography.

“Bob,” I said, snapping my fingers to stop his face from being stuck in that stunned expression. “Now I’ll read my newspaper obituary. I don’t want any made-up stuff about how benevolent I am.”

Saralee died from asphyxiation while screaming her head

off about how benevolent she is, at which point friends and family surrounding her put a pillow over her face.

She is not survived by anybody worth mentioning.

According to her wishes, Saralee was buried with the Oscar she won for writing the remake of “Titanic.” She brilliantly changed the ending so that instead of the ship sinking, the passengers were rescued by the pirate, Johnny Depp, after which they all partied on the deck eating Chinese take-out.

She was also buried with her Olympic gold medal for the coveted honor of winning first place in the category: “Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

Saralee was most proud of being accepted by the prestigious society, The Who’s Who of Owls.

Visiting hours will be held at the end of her driveway for about a month and a half.

An informal mass and barbeque will be held in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. In lieu of donating money to charity, send exorbitant useless gigantic flower arrangements. BYOB.

“Bob?” I called out. “Can you hear all this from the kitchen?”

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

I yelled louder, “I have to write my epitaph for my tombstone.”

“I’ll write it,” he said solemnly.

He wrote:

Get my drift, I ask of thee.

Here “lies” Saralee.

We knew when we heard her eulogy,

she’ll be lying throughout eternity.