Lately, I’ve become fascinated with famous last words, my favorite being Oscar Wilde’s. As Oscar lay on his queenie, Parisian deathbed, he announced, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.”
And then he died.
Obviously, this has me thinking of what my parting words will be when I eventually leave this earth for the fiery hell I’m no doubt due.
I can’t come up with anything good.
I know I want one hell of a memorial service, with video montages set to tearful yet trendy music and scantily clad pallbearers. I want bagpipes and celebrities giving eulogies and a gospel choir and sorrowful displays of regret from the men who’ve wronged me. I want mafia-esque flower arrangements and a slow procession of high-profile mourners, all pretending to avoid the huge media turnout covering my painless demise.
Finally, I want a huge party with a very exclusive guest list and lots of people turned away at the door for being assholes to me while I was alive. Everyone has to drink Gibsons and dress in something I would approve of, and the night will culminate with lots of drunken toasts about how fabulous everyone always thought I was but never got around to telling me. No one will say one word about my proclivity for bitchiness, alcohol and judgment. And all of my past indiscretions, mistakes, blunders and public humiliations will be forgotten.
All I need, other than 60 more years of health and happiness, are some fantastic goddamn last words…