My husband and I were walking through a cemetery when he shook his head and said, “Epitaphs are so serious.”
“Right, Rob. Strange, isn’t it?”
After reading the fine print on gravestones all day, I couldn’t sleep that night. If I don’t sleep, I get goofy. When I finished a soothing glass of warm milk and roast pork, I wrote my obituary.
Then I woke Rob. “People should know the truth instead of some fairy tale about what an amazing person I was.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Sara, a fifty-five-time Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, will be missed by everyone in the universe … and elsewhere.
He interrupted, “I guess you haven’t been sleeping.”
Known by her nickname, Mother Teresa, Sara gave billions to the neediest. Insisting on anonymity, she disguised herself as Oprah.
She was the only psychiatrist who could rehabilitate Charlie Sheen. At his first session, he swaggered into her office, chain-smoked cigarettes and sang, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me.” By his last session, he was knitting pink booties for his new poodle. He left her office singing, “I’m a little teapot.”
“Rob!” I snapped 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 was.”
Sara 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, Sara was buried with the Oscar for her 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 delivery.
She was also buried with her Olympic gold medal for the coveted honor of winning first place in the category: “Rock. Paper. Scissors.”
At the age of 7, Sara received a Lifetime Achievement Award for her outstanding contribution to world literature – her New York Times best-selling book, "My Autobiography: A Lifetime of Courageous Feats.”
Sara was most proud of being accepted by the prestigious society: The Who’s Who of Owls.
A formal mass and weenie roast will be held in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. In lieu of donating money to charity, send exorbitant useless gigantic flower arrangements. BYOB.
“Rob?” I called out. “Can you hear all this from the kitchen?”
“No. That’s why I’m in here.”
So I yelled louder, “I have to write my epitaph for my tombstone.”
“I’ll write it,” he solemnly said.
Five minutes later, he sat next to me, then read, gravely:
You’re lucky that you didn’t know,
My wife, Sara, who “lies” below.
Feeling nary a bit of remorse nor disgrace,
Her cock and bull’s in a better place.
We know from her asinine eulogy,
She’ll be lying throughout eternity.