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?”