Instead of my traditional GIF greeting, let’s stare at my wintry good looks instead. #nofilter, well, maybe a little filter, but only to brighten the image. That’s the face that the good Lord Beysus gave me.

Holla Flock!

Today was the funeral of my great aunt, Olga. I didn’t really know her all that well, but isn’t that a great name? It means “Holy” in Russian, which doesn’t makes sense to me since her part of the family isn’t Russian. They’re all from Germany. There is a story from my father’s side of the family where the Phillips’ or some clan of ours was forcibly ejected from the country for partaking in a political uprising. I don’t know if that’s true. It doesn’t sound like a Phillips thing to do. We’re awfully lazy. Anyway, her death got me thinking about death in general — I don’t whine and moan about it, it’s coming for us all — I was thinking more of my funeral in particular. I have some very detailed plans for it that I should share so that they’re out in the open beforehand. But, before we get to that, we need to open our hymnals up and sing “Heaven” by our good friend, Beyoncé:

[Dumb privacy issues. Click through, reader, it’s worth it.]

Lovely track, that. Play it at my funeral, right after “Partition,” please.

Okay, I find the concept of my own death absolutely ridiculous. I haven’t the time to die! I’ve wasted so much time already! It is a firm belief of mine that by the time I’m old enough to pass on, we will have the scientific knowledge to make death pointless. I’ve long had this belief. The other day, I came across a draft of a novel I started in high school. It was terrible, which is why I completely forgot about it, I’m sure. It was about a facility that grew mindless human beings to serve as organ donors and the like for the public. One of the clones or whatever they were became sentient and escaped the facility, but I never wrote more than that. It is still an interesting concept. I like to think that I’ll be around forever and ever until I choose not to be anymore. I’ve no problem with dying, I just want to decide when I go. What’s the point of dying if you haven’t touched the Great Pyramid or taken tea in a temple or married five celebrities or been in a film? I’m off topic again. I do go off on tangents so often.

Okay, let’s say I’m dead. I died in an extraordinarly extravagant fashion. Perhaps I was yachting on the Mediterranean and choked on a cocktail? Let’s go with that. Now the treatment of my corpse is very specific, so pay attention:

• Do not, I repeat, do not embalm me.
• Scrape my muscles and flesh from my bones so that I am nothing but a skeleton connected by my ligaments. If this fails, and it might, I’ve no problem with being wired together.
• Cremate the flesh and muscles and brain and fat and hair and whatnot. Divide this up into five elegant vessels. Something along the lines of an ancient Egyptian canopic jar.
• Take the skeleton and one jar of ashes and install them at Père Lachaise in Paris. I know that this will be very difficult, but I’m hoping that I’ll be a Parisian citizen at the time of my death, so it shouldn’t be impossible. If it proves to be, I’m relying on you, MY FLOCK, to have me interred where I belong. If I truly can’t get put there, I will accept a residence in London’s Highgate or Hollywood Forever as last resorts.
• The sepulcher my skeleton rests in should be based on the antiquated ones found in Père Lachaise. The skeleton should be clearly visible from the window of the door. One jar of the ashes should be buried here.
• Scatter one jar of the ashes in Egypt, either on the Giza plateau or in the Valley of the Kings.
• Scatter one jar of the ashes along the beach in Sarasota, Florida.
• Scatter one jar of ashes from the highest place you can get in San Francisco. Let them flutter on the breeze and settle where they wish.
• The last jar can remain in the family amongst whoever wants a piece of me. The jar should be properly displayed, preferably on a mantle.

I know that was rather involved, but I’m not joking at all.

Onto my funeral now!

Even though I am a blessed reverend, I do not follow any religion. I think religion is absolutely ridiculous (though I would never ever judge/taunt/critique/hate anybody for having a religion or spiritual belief) and want nothing to do with it. So, unless you can book St. Peter’s Basilica — for the opulence — I want my funeral to be far from a church. I don’t want it in a funeral home, either. Those things are absolutely tragic.

I’m thinking I want an outdoor festival, so if I die in the winter, hold off on the celebrations. I once received a magazine called the Lutheran Witness — who knows how — and it offended me so much that I burnt it. It said that funerals that were referred to as celebrations of life were an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Thinking back, that might have been the beginning of the end of my approval of religion. My funeral will be a grand celebration that will be spoken of for years to come.

Pick a nice park where all my friends and family and fans can gather. Someplace with nice benches and all. It should take place on a hot summer day in the late afternoon. There will be a massive buffet of every kind of vegetarian dish ever conceived. I’m expecting a massive cheese section. (I will be attending as a ghost, so don’t eff this up.) People should drink heartily of delicious cocktails. As dusk falls, I want a show to begin where drag queens perform my favorite songs. You will be able to find a playlist titled “FUNERAL PLAYLIST” on my computer. Sing and dance with them, please.

Each guest should leave with a cat from the rescue league as a parting gift.

The dress should be nice, but since it’s summer, I will allow short suits. Just don’t come dressed like a hobo, please.

Whilst you’re all together, looking at my skeleton, enjoy yourself and remember me fondly. I like to think that I never did anybody any harm.

That’s all for this week, flock.