Another One Bites the Dust-AH!

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I don't know if it's just "my cycle" or that Discovery Health special I watched about the morbidly obese, but I've been like, totally bummed out. These past few days, I have posed to myself and the almighty powers that be, many of the typical questions one might ask when pondering the great unknown: (cue the violin music) What does this life really mean?........ Where do we go when we die? .........Will I see my family there? ........Will God forgive me for that meth lab I started and shortly thereafter closed back in '01? .........Will I still have a bangin' bod, lustrous locks, killer personality and all-you-can-eat buffet of men at my disposal when I cross over to the "other side"? It may sound like the opening dialogue to an anti-depression medication commercial, (Zoloft blob, I'm talkin' to you little guy!) but these are the burning questions that I need to know in order to make the changes that my life so greatly needs. Okay, I'm already perfect but what-ev's... And what about those deeply unfortunate and less genetically blessed ones that I leave behind? Will anything be left unsaid? Will Jane my coworker ever know what I really thought about her unibrow and Cool Ranch Doritos smelling body odor? Will my Uncle Jerry know that I have forgiven him for getting busted by NBC's "To Catch a Predator" and then continuing to drink his margarita and blatantly lie to one Mr. Chris Hanson? Will my third-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Walker, ever know that I was really the one behind the infamous "Brown Spot Scandal" of 1989? I guess I can't waste what time I do have on this beautiful planet pondering away life's unanswered questions, but it never hurts to ask.

Speaking of questions and death .... What the fuck? And by that statement, I am referring to the retardedness that is the whole Anna Nicole Smith debacle. For those of you who aren't in the loop let me fill you in really quick. I will do so using only seven words: Boobs. Playboy. Geezer. Billionaire. Drugs. Dead. Babydaddy. Now that we're all caught up, I've got to say, this thing has gotten out of hand. The media outlets are obsessed with this story and I regret to inform you that I too have been sucked in. The soap opera that is Boobgate continues to spiral out of control and I love every minute of it. Even in her passing, "Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole, she's so outrageous!" They're finally placing Anna's lifeless, plastic, collagen and silicone filled body in the ground today. I can just see the funeral now: "Ladies and gentleman, please remain quiet as we all join together in a moment of "Do Ya Like My Body?". I wonder if The Birkmeister will attend? Will they sprinkle TrimSpa tablets and pink glitter over the grave? Oh what I wouldn't give to be a fly on that casket. Vomiting every time I land.

In all seriousness, I hope the afterlife is all it's cracked up to be. I envision a wonderful place where I do the deed with Elvis & James Dean on a nightly basis and drugs are free and legal with no negative long-term effects. A place where Fred Astaire gives me dance lessons and "She's A Maniac" plays whenever I want it to. A place where I get to see what happened to all the bad kids in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. A place where I no longer have an allergic reaction to KY and retarded people aren't retarded anymore . A place where my breasts are forever perky and my days are spent eating cheese and watching Lifetime Movies atop a rainbow colored unicorn named Trudy. A place where.....

What? Sounds too good to be true?

Just you wait and see, just you wait and see....


The whole controversy of "What Anna Nicole Would Have Wanted" and even the whole Terri Schiavo case from 2005 made me look deep into my soul about what I would want should I become comatose, a veggie, or worse, dead. I have contacted my attorney (The Shaggy D.A.) and put it in a bulleted list for all to see, that way, no one can say otherwise. Consider this my living will:


- Sneak some processed pizza-flavored Combos and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese down my feeding tube. You know how hospital food is......

- Come to my bedside and read raunchy Harlequin novels to me. Only read the sex scenes: "Her hand touched his member and it trembled with pleasure under her sweaty grasp"

- Do stuff with my hair that I never would have done, like a purple weave with a birds nest and butterflies on top.

- Roll me around the hospital making me look like I'm conscious, a la "Weekend at Bernie's"

- Sneak in my room and strategically place a bunch of beer cans, liquor bottles, and ashtrays of cigarette butts around the room so that the staff thinks I had an all night rager.

- Start a web page honoring my memory: www.thewhoreisfinallydead.com.

- DVR Grey's Anatomy & Lost for me. If I ain't dead, I'm coming back and I'm gonna want to watch my shows, bitch.

- Keep what personal belongings of mine that you want and then auction off the rest. Use the money from that to pay off my cell phone bill... Giiiirrrl, I be talkin' all the damn time.

- Two words: Spray Tan.

- Three words: I'm watching you.

- Shave my legs & armpits. I don't want to be known as "'Hippie bitch' in Room #101" by all of the hospital staff.

- Wax my bikini line. I don't want to be known as "'Bush Light' in Room #101" by all of the hospital staff. Plus I won't feel a thing.

- Have the nurse spray me with Calgon from time to time. Take me away!!!!!

- Have dance-off's with me. I'll still win sucka!

- Use me as an experiment to see what happens when a vegetable gets high.

- I don't want to miss out on anything. Cart my limp-ass to parties and use my armpits as coozies.

- Make my funeral themed like a college sorority party: "80's Prom Nite" Don't forget to dress me up like Pretty in Pink!

- Make sure to turn on "The Young & The Restless" every day at 12:30 on CBS. Nothing says "Wake up from a coma" like the mumbling voice of Victor Newman.

- If my doctor is hot, leave a note by my bed that says "See you when I wake up, hot stuff!" and forge my signature beside it.

- Host a fundraiser in my name, then pocket the cash, I insist. See? Holding back someone's hair when they puke really is worth it.

- Throw baloney at my face and see if it sticks.

- Give me drag-queen style makeup and a sequins dress for my wake. Hire a lounge singer to do a live version of "Wind Beneath My Wings" as my visitors walk through.

- Keep my deepest darkest secret from being revealed: My Ashlee Simpson fan club membership card.

- Wait until the waiting room is full of people and then carry my unconscious body out there crying, "She's dead, she's dead! God why have you forsaken me?" Then yell out "PSYCH!" and run away.


What do you want when you die? Bring on the gothnicity, skanks.