The best moving box, for that final relocation, is a glossy cherrywood casket.

The End is really the final, ultimate move, don’t you think?

“So where are you moving to?”

“Six feet under.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you get transferred?”

“You might say. Instead of sales, I will be moldering among the worms.”

“Gee, I hope the money’s good.”

“Me, too, man. Me, too.”

I don’t get why they dress you up when you die. My aunt was in a gorgeous gown. If you’re a man, they stick you in a suit just like every other man, living or dead.

This is death, not the prom.

I wanna be in my 20 year old, thin, threadbare terribly comfy Bob’s Trucking t-shirt, along with my ancient red flannel pajama bottoms. I’m going to be ‘laid to rest’, after all. That is how I laid myself to rest most nights–unless I had female companionship. In those rare cases, I only wore a thick coating of baby oil and a leer.

I do want a massive tomb, however. Something on a nearly Egyptian scale. And solar powered, because if there’s one thing I care about as a person, living or dead, it’s the issues.

On this massive tomb, I want a big red button that says PRESS. When my mourning faithful do indeed press it, I want “Jesus Built My Hotrod” by Ministry to begin blasting from hidden speakers. Why? Because soon I discovered that this rock thing was true. Jerry Lee Lewis was the devil. Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet. All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world, so there is only one thing I could do: DING A DING DANG MY DANG A LONG LING LONG!