Life After Death

The recession is undoubtedly upon us. I saw a guy driving a BMW today using a rotary dial phone (rim shot). Let’s face it, we’re all going to have to find ways to cut back. In fact, my wife and I have agreed upon some mutually cost-saving, as well as money-producing, measures which you could also practice.
It has always vexed me that people spend so much money on funerals, so Barbara and I have made a pact to spend no more than $500 on each other’s internment. Barbara has not released any details of her cut-rate arrangements, but I am eager to share my ideas with anybody who’s willing to read them. The first step toward funeral frugality is simply not to contact a funeral home. Who needs them? Just buy some large—maybe eight gauge—trash bags and stick me in one. Just drop me in a hole in the backyard next to my two collies. They didn’t have all these elaborate amenities, and they were my best friends—so why should I? As you can see, my burial will not even cost $5.00, much less $500, and maybe not even $4.00 if you buy store brand trash bags.
Also, I don’t want any of my good suits to be wasted by burying me in them; in fact, not even my “yard shorts” should be wasted. Somebody else can use these clothes. Give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. On the other hand, if Barbara could locate my old leisure suit and my disco boots, she can dress me in them. That will not be a waste; for certainly, even the most desperate of the homeless would not be seen in these fashion horrors. And, since I will request that there be no viewing of the remains, my being eternally out of style will be of no consequence. (Incidentally, I have also requested that the word “remains” not ever be used in reference to my body, since unless I am run over by a riding mower or attend a smokers’ convention at Herbie’s Famous Fireworks, this term seems gruesomely inappropriate.)
On second thought I cannot be buried in my leisure suit, since it’s mostly polyester and I don’t think it’s biodegradable. Therefore, being ecologically conscious to the end, I will be buried in the nude, and once again, it will make no difference at all, since no one is going to be gawking at me and making statements like: “Eaww, disgusting, yet sad—at least they could have laid him on his stomach.”
Of course, is there is some way my wife can turn a profit on my demise, then I would be willing to make an initial posthumous investment. For instance, I could be hollowed out and stuffed with used Odor Eaters and potpourri bags. Barbara could sell me for a piece of New Age sculpture—maybe an atrium centerpiece—or put me in my yard shorts and display me as a sort of “Yard of the Living Dead” lawn ornament. Or better yet, dress me in a little jockey outfit, fun off some plaster copies and market me in the ghetto as “Lil’ Waspie.”
As long as I’m on the “death as a money-making enterprise” bent, let’s dispense with the usual morbid ceremonies and just have a yard sale which includes not only my belongings, but also my taxidermic carcass. List it in the classifieds section of the newspaper, not the obituaries. It should read: “Huge yard sale of belongings of dearly departed extensively unknown writer Bob Coskrey. Clothing, furniture, unpublished and/or rejected manuscripts. Large overstuffed chair with moderately stuffed and environmentally safe cadaver.”
The post-mortem financial opportunities are practically limitless. Barbara could have me disemboweled and “Swansonsized” (deboned), then inflate me with helium and sell me as the “Anatomically Correct (well, pretty damn close to it) Bob-Balloon.” As adults have been slow to discover, kids really enjoy some of the more grisly aspects of life anyway, so you can imagine the joy I would bring to some eight year old, as he trick-or-treats around the neighborhood, pulling my hovering hull on a long string.
She could also stuff me with acorns or soybeans or whatever they use to fill beanbag furniture and sell me as a “Bob-bag chair.” Actually, I think I’d prefer to be filled with cashews, though they’re a bit expensive, since I’ve always had a gustatory fantasy of stuffing myself to larynx level with these delightful kernels. Another fruitful idea would be to preserve me at normal body proportions but give me a slightly maniacal expression, then put me in a standing-up posture on wheels, with an exe in my hands. I could be marketed as a “Scare-Solicitor”—I could be rolled to the door whenever those annoying individuals show up pushing their wares (e.g. encyclopedias, make-up, penetrating anti-mime mace, “The Watch Tower”).
Lastly, I don’t want my friends, relatives or in-laws wasting money on expensive flowers. I would prefer a modest contribution to either of my favorite organizations: SSAP (the Society for the Spaying of All Politicians. Motto: “Don’t Pay ‘em!” Spay ‘em!”); or SCUM (Senders of Continually Unknown Manuscripts. Motto: “Rejection is the mother of frustration, but ineptitude is the mother of editing”).
So, as you can see, the death of a spouse does not have to be equated with completely unnecessary expenses. It costs enough for couples to live. Why should the survivor—a term ripe with multiple meaning—have to shell out vast sums of money just to dispose of the dearly departed non-survivor’s soulless pod, when by following any of the above suggestions he or she can not only avoid the sparse existence of widowerhood or widowhood, but even turn this lugubrious event into an economic bonanza.
Just ask yourself: “Would he/she have wanted it this way?”

Bubba Olympics

November 1997
The Bubba Olympics
By Bob Coskrey

FIELD EVENTS

High Jump

Qualifications:
1. Must register at least 3 times the legal alcohol level.
2. Must be able to stand without support for 5 seconds.
3. Must have body fat percentage higher than an elephant seal (approximately 98%)

From a standing position, the competitor must jump up and sit on a barstool, holding a 12-ounce mug of beer in each hand, without spilling any of it.

Hub Cap Throw

Hub caps, American cars only, are hurled for distance. They are also fetched and returned by coon hounds.

The Stuff, Hock and Spit

Contestants stuff their mouths with chewing tobacco, augment this wad with a hefty hock, then spit for distance.
Drooling, spraying on bystanders, or the accidental launching of dentures will be grounds for disqualification. Judges as well as contestants will be requested to wear protective welding visors.

12-Guage Shotgun Put

A loaded shotgun is tossed for distance to a teammate. Points are scored when a successful catch is made without the gun firing. Half-points are gained when opponents are accidentally shot.
No fans are allowed in the stadium during this event—except for lawyers who will be seated in the front row.

WRESTLING

Bubba-Redman (Mud): While in knee-deep 100% Mississippi mud, men wrestle with their mouths filled with an extra large wad of Redman tobacco. Drooling or loss of any tobacco externally or internally will result in disqualification.
The first person who successfully places his opponent into a Willie Nelson, a hold halfway between a half and a full nelson, will win automatically.

WEIGHTLIFTING
SUPER HEAVY WEIGHT DIVISION ONLY

One Qualification: Must weight a minimum of 300 pounds.
Must consume a meal consisting entirely of pork products, except for a side order of either steak smothered in brown lipid gravy or French fries cooked in cholesterol, and then be able to lift oneself from the table in less than 2 minutes.
EMS personnel, as well as hearses will be on hand.

GYMNASTICS

The Beam Beam

Contestants must finish off a quart of Jim Beam then mount and walk across the 4” wide balance beam. Police background checks will be done to screen out individuals with lengthy DUI records, since it is felt that participation in the walking portion of field sobriety tests would give that person an unfair advantage.

The Horizontal Bar

An endurance test held in a drinking establishment, the person who imbibes the longest without becoming horizontal wins.

TRACK

Monster Truck Pull Demolition Derby Non-High Hurdles

Planned automotive chaos, which has been canceled every year since its inception due to a lack of competitors; to qualify, the driver must pass a pre-event sobriety test.
Competitors in all events, as well as spectators, must have designated drivers.

WATER EVENTS

100 Meter Heatsroke

Qualifications:
1. Must be unable to see feet from a supine position
2. Must have at least border-line high blood pressure
3. Must be knee-walking drunk
4. Must wear hunting or cowboy boots
5. Must be able to float

Assuming every competitor will have at least a heat stroke, the first one that touches the end of the pool, without having a heart attack or expiring, wins.

Team Water Displacement Diving

Two teams of 5 guys who must each weigh in excess of 275 pounds must bellyflop into two separate pools. Whichever team empties their pool first, wins.
The last diver will receive a free Olympic status funeral with full honors.
The pools will be skimmed regularly to minimize barbecue grease slicks.

Totally Unsynchronized Swimming

Teams of two guys each, in full hunting gear, will perform underwater acrobatic and ballet movements. Degree of difficulty will increase due to the competitors eschewing nose clips in favor of just squeezing their noses closed between their thumbs and forefingers. The team that finishes its routine without requiring artificial resuscitation wins.

First Night/Frost Bite/Worst Night

If we continue to have these frigid, early winters, I am recommending the above for the new title of First Night Charleston. And since we seem to relish being different from other cities, let’s start celebrating New Year’s in April like the Romans used to do, which would certainly increase our chances of warmer weather—or maybe just have the entire event in Citadel Mall.

My wife and I and our friends, Joe and Judy, trudged through the 22-degree night from the Gaillard to the King Street Christmas tree and back to the Maritime Center, respectively, although I was occasionally slowed by the feeling that icicles were forming on some of my internal organs. Of the events that we attended, two were outside and one (in a garage) may as well have been. At the peril of being called a Warm Weather Wimp or a Cotton Belt Coward by Hoary-breathed Minnesotans and New Englanders, I must confess that it was, at times, less than enjoyable standing benumbed on frozen asphalt for an hour at a time and watching equally cold performers trying to coax dulcet tones out of nearly crystallized instruments with lifeless fingers and petrified lips. In fact, I’m surprised there were no reports of musicians leaving parts of their lips or tongues stuck to their instruments similar to that kid verses the flagpole incident in Gene Sheppards’s “A Christmas Story.”

As for the events themselves, two bands, two singing groups and an improv troupe, if I were giving out grades for entertainment value, they would range from F to A+. I’m certainly no musician and I don’t expect Broadway caliber performances for an average ticket price per event of $2 each, but the first event we attended almost put an instantaneous but premature end to our Arctic Odyssey at 4:16 p.m. I have nothing against senior citizens, especially since I happen to be one myself, but when the venue for a musical entertainment event is a geriatric residential facility, that should be a tip-off to any rationally thinking person that any audience members holding up their cigarette lighters here will be less a tribute to the performers than a vain attempt to quell the aroma of human mustiness, and all attempts at mosh-pit diving are certain to result in an epidemic of broken hips rather than endless opportunities for group groping. The group, whose name I won’t divulge for fear of retaliation (prune-pelting can be very painful, especially if the puts are not removed), was composed (nearly decomposed) of four middle-aged females, who harmonized jazz, swing, blues and big band and show tunes a cappella.

In truth, they were really not that terrible, and I can actually recall being a big fan of Manhattan Transfer in the 60s, but this was more of a derailment than a transfer—with injuries, and the 45-minute performance seemed more like three excruciating hours. (Grade: F)

Al thought I usually enjoy Gospel music, this group, who shall remain nameless along with the rest, despite having some great individual voices, in my opinion, had too many intractable soloists who were given to gratuitous outbursts of a flavor that ranked somewhere between “Star Search” and “Amateur Night at the Apollo.” (Grade: C)

The improv group, which I’d seen a couple of years ago, had all new actors this time (two males and two females). They were good, but one of the male actors was so much better than the other three. It was like Jim Carrey appearing with one of those awful SNL casts of a few years ago. Plus the venue was in a garage-like building surrounded by roll-up doors, and we had to stand up because there weren’t enough seats. The most talented performer even made a comment about their appearing in garages throughout the South. (Grade: B)

The bluegrass band consisted of a mandolin, a guitar, an upright bass, a banjo and something called a dobro. Although I’m not a bluegrass devotee, I really enjoyed their act. Everybody in the crowd was stomping their feet, yee-hawing—including myself—and dancing, with some opportunistic guys humping instead of swinging their partners—which did not include me. I have a bad back. (Grade: A)

The best and simultaneously coldest even was a band (2 pianos, 2 horns, a sax and a drummer) composed of University of Dayton students, who performed on an outdoor stage next to the King Street Christmas tree. They played pop favorites from the 70s and 80s with the two pianists taking turns at singing. They sounded great and played with a great deal of enthusiasm. Most of the audience was college age, but as the group continued to play, more and more older people began showing up and, eventually, there was a large clapping and dancing crowd, along with a long conga line of students that snaked its way through and around eh rest of us. Again, there were intermittent acts of spontaneous humping in the guide of dancing, although I began to think that his may be a new dance, with which a well respected member of the “out crowd” such as myself was simply unfamiliar. Who cares? This group was terrific. (Grade: A+)

We all left at 11 p.m. to celebrate the New Year in the toasty confines of our den instead of sticking around to watch the fireworks display and further challenge the gods of Hypothermia.

While overall I enjoyed First Night Charleston, if next year’s weather is anything like this one, we’ll be spending it indoors with our usual, fun-loving friend, Dick Clark. At least next year there will be some added interest and intrigue in seeing what drops first…NYC’s big ball or Dick’s facelift. And just like Madonna said, “There’s nothing worse than a Dickless New Year’s Eve.”

Sixty-six and not counting

Next month I will neither observe not celebrate my 67th birthday. I can see no logical reason for it. There’s no law requiring me to observe it, as long as I don’t try to take the next step of changing my date of birth on any official records, although I could probably find someone to change it on my driver’s license for a price. Let’s say I change it from 2/11/40 to 2/11/70, but that would mean I would have to repudiate the existence of my son, since I would then be one year older than he is, and I would have to make sure Social Security and the State Retirement Fund did not find out, because my pensions would be stopped and I would also owe them a lot of money. But almost as bad would be the predicament when a cashier asked for my ID when I cashed a check. (Yes, I’m so old I still use checks.) There would be at least a minute of this perplexed person looking at my date of birth, my picture, and me over and over again, and wanting to ask something such as, “Did you used to work in the desert for a long time?” “Were you involved in some kind of sulfuric acid accident?” Or “did you use one of those plastic surgeons out of the back of a magazine?” “Mad Magazine?” I would be compelled to preempt her verbalizing these thoughts with the old stand-by, “I’ve had a hard life.”

So probably changing the ID date of birth is less than feasible, unless I were “W,” of course, then I would simply deny the infeasibility, since once he gets an idea, it’s “stay the course,” no matter how lame-brained. I apologize to the reader. I was sure I could get through two paragraphs, at least, before I made a political reference. But as far as observing my birthday’s from now on, it’s “all systems not go.” Someone eons ago decided we should start keeping track of how old we are, but I’m not going to give that individual the satisfaction of researching him or her for details on the computer. It’s more fun to just make up stuff as I go along, sort of like you-know-who. This person, undoubtedly, stood to profit from this practice and either he or an accomplice then probably came up with the idea of beginning the tradition of celebrating a person’s birth date every time the Earth revolved around the sun.

To be fair, I guess I can understand the reason to celebrate birthdays when you’re in your youth, since at that time you’re really only celebrating getting presents and attention. It’s not till you’re long past the days of carefree, unburdened frolicking that you realize that it’s exactly that kind of lifestyle you should have been rejoicing about all along. But now, it’s too late. I recall that when I was in my 40s, I used to lament about it, then when I reached my 50s, I’d lament about that and wish I were back in my 40s again. Now that I’m in my 60s, I look back on my 50s with a nostalgic yearning. Right now, I’m picturing myself taking my first AARP card out of the envelope and tears are beginning to could my vision, or maybe it’s an incipient cataract. Sentimentality aside, the belatedly learned lesson is that I should just enjoy the decade that I’m in at the time before it roars past and not pine for the ones irretrievably locked away in the vacuous vault of my memory bank.

And while I reflect upon the saturnalian orgy that has been my 6th decade, aware of Caligulan comparisons and Hef’s envious eyes, I approach the 7th, lurking ‘round the corner like some drug-fueled mugger with in-your-face temerity.

Well, I have employed the cheap trick of exaggerating a bit to keep you interested, but the point is I’m not going to weep over the bygone decades or be terrorized by the next one. I’m just going to enjoy the one I’ living in .I could simply observe my birthday every decade, but that, for God’s sake, would be even worse. I would certainly reduce the number of birthday recognitions, but at this stage, this could be my last one.

As the shrinking group of familial bystanders continues to applaud my inexorable descent into the rising river of senility, despite my protestation, I must also prepare myself for the onslaught of patronizing compliments and cloying clichés:

1. You certainly don’t look your age. (You look older than your age.)

2. Your mind is still as quick as ever. (You should thank God because your body is really a mess. And if your wife’s lucky, you’ll be able to thank him in person very soon.)

3. Today, you’re 67 years young. (Yeah, you believe that, you old goat. The only person in their 60s who is young is Neil.) 4. Or an aside: Ooh, look how spry he is. (How much do you want to bet he breaks his hip before the end of the day?)

I’m grateful that no one has asked me the secret of my longevity yet, but that will probably take place in another decade, and when it does, I am already prepared.

Well, you young whippersnapper, if you insist on knowing, these are the reasons for my excruciatingly long life:

1. During the Vietnam conflict, I was briefly adopted by a couple in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

2. I did not take part in the Bada Bing Social Club’s Drive By Turkey Shoot.

3. In 1968, upon witnessing an elderly woman being robbed by a young tough guy, I immediate stationed myself behind a concrete wall a block or so away and began praying vigorously.

4. I did not participate in the Spruill Avenue Garden Club’s Lethal Weapon Scavenger Hunt.

5. When using the NYC subways, I avoided eye contact by learning to move about while starting straight down at the ground.

6. During the Sexual Revolution, I always eschewed unorthodox and dangerous positions and not only stayed the (inter)course by adhering to the missionary position, but took it that extra step by limiting my sexual partners to actual missionaries, going straight to the source, so to speak

7. I have learned to hold my breath for 4 minutes, exactly the amount of time it takes me to drive through North Charleston on I-526. 8. When traveling abroad, I always tell people I’m Canadian.

Of course, I realize that all this fuss is simply about not wanting to grow old, or to be more clinically specific, I have a severe case of Vigodaphobia (a fear of ending up looking like Abe Vigoda). So never mind about the birthday defense. It’s a bit too superficial. It’s all in the attitude. From now on, as far as I’m concerned, with people living so much longer now, the 60s are the new 40s, the 70s, the new 50s, and so on. I’m just going to see how I can function without ever looking in a mirror again.