Entrepreneurship After Death

December 1992

Entrepreneurship After Death
By Bob Coskrey

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?”

Punxatawney Who?

February 1999
Punxatawney Who?
By Bob Coskrey

Everyone knows about the legend of the groundhog that emerges from is burrow every February. If it’s a sunny day and he’s scared by his shadow, he scampers back into his den and through some zoometeorological phenomenon, we have six more weeks of winter. If it’s a cloudy day and he does not see his shadow, and is not frightened by other unnatural phenomenon, such as cruel natured children carrying a picture of Linda Tripp or the eardrum imploding sounds emanating from a Kathy Lee Gifford Christmas special CD, then he stays outside and we have an early spring.

It is uncommon knowledge that before the people in Punxatawney, Pennsylvania, invented the town groundhog mascot, Punxatawney Phil, hoping to cash in on a major theme park built around the waddling wood chuck (that’s another name for a groundhog), Europeans had similar traditions involving other animals, such as bears, badgers, wolverines, and other furry fauna for hundreds of years. They would plan their seasonal planting based on these animals’ behavior, which probably, if they kept records, would prove to be as accurate as your local TV weatherman.

A prescription for disaster, if you ask me. What would happen should there be no shadow due to an eclipse of the sun or perhaps Janet Reno or Marlon Brando walking by? There would be an incorrect prediction, that’s what, and crops would die, possibly followed by people.

And why did they choose a groundhog, and not a more well known and attractive animal such as a bear, a fox, or a rabbit? Supposedly, we can blame those troublemaking Germans for this too, when they introduced the legend into Pennsylvania. And if we’re stuck with the groundhog, whey not use its cuter name, the wood chuck? At least there’s that little alliterative woodchuck riddle:

“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

Which is superior to:

“How much ground would a groundhog hog, if a groundhog could hog ground?”
Unfortunately, in this part of the country, the woodchuck/groundhog doesn’t even exist, so we, in essence, have no legendary creature to perform a yearly world renowned prognostication event. But that, of course, doesn’t mean we can’t have one.

First, I have a suggestion for us East Cooperites. The legend of the East Cooper Black Labrador Retriever: Each February, we select, at random, a typical East Cooper resident’s home and observe its 2,500 foot dock erection plunged into moistness of the yielding, virgin marsh. If the owners’ black lab bounds onto the dock with a red bandana around its neck, spring will come early, new home building and property values will grow threefold, banks will outnumber trees (since money grows in the former, no on the latter), most 14 year olds will get a Landrover for their birthdays, and a palpable scent of smugness will continue to permeate the salty air.

If the bandana is any other color, spring will be 6 weeks later, new home building and property values wil show a humiliating 50% increase, the bank to resident ratio will remain at a troubling 1 to 5, most 14 year olds will endure the indignity of receiving a Volvo station wagon for their birthdays, and the palpable scent of smugness will only be noticeable during the Boone Hall Oyster Festival.

The city of Charleston could flaunt its Charleston Butterfly (a.k.a. Palmetto Bug or Flying Cockroach). Each February a random Below Broad home is selected. That night, a two pound benne seed cookie is left on the kitchen floor and the light is turned off. Fifteen minutes later, the light is flipped back on. If the cockroach (it is a given that one will be there) is observed dragging the cookie, it is captured, its wings are painted the colors of a butterfly, it is released from St. Michael’s belltower, and there will be 6 more weeks of winter, thus postponing the dreaded annual tourist stampede.

If the roach simply bypasses the cookie and scampers away, it is hunted down and swatted flat, with an old rolled-up Beasley for Governor poster (picture side down), its remains are symbolically donated to the Taste of Goose Creek Festival, and we will have an early spring, initiated by the annual Flip-flop Wearers’ Convention.

Last, but definitely not least, Myrtle Beach would introduce its legend of the Horry County Shag Beetle, a hardy insect that curiously makes its home only in the windmill hole of putt-putt golf courses. If the beetle emerges from his hazardous habitat and does its famous shag dance, there will be an early spring, heralded by a record number of Canadian visitors, Myrtle Beach will be named an honorary province (Sastackiwan), and the city will become the yearly site of the Elvis Impersonator Convention.

If the dithyrambic creature scurries from its at-risk abode and is squashed lifeless by a disoriented duffer’s drive, there will be 6 more weeks of cold weather, vanguarded by the persistent Canadian tourists, all of whom will be named honorary Myrtle Beachers, also qualifying them for permanent Ugly American status abroad, and the city will become the annual site of the Gayest Guy on the Grand Strand competition (also known as the Richard Simmons Look-alike Contest).

So you see, every community, if it is just a little creative and a lot determined, can have its own special annual prognosticator event, insuring it unending publicity and tons of tourist dollars.

If I may ad just one more thought, don’t be timid about self-promotion. Believe me, this self-respect thing is vastly overrated. Just ask a politician.