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What is, in your opinion, the correct wine to drink at a wake? Red is too macabre, especially if the deceased was overcome by leukemia, and white is too playful: the departed is usually not a fish, after all. Chablis? Only if you're gay. Granted, studies suggest most of the country has experimented with homosexuality, but a wake is hardly the place to make it known how much of the percentage into which one fits. The wine problem notwithstanding: what kind of rap music is appropriate, especially if the corpse in his or her living years was not a hip hop connoisseur? Some of the magazines available at the newsstands, and note that these are magazine which even children can buy, some of these mags suggest that Busta Rhymes is never a wrong choice when music and the dead are concerned, whether it is a wake, a viewing, a service, a funeral, or even as was the case in 1997 on a March Tuesday when Harold Robinson of Newstucket, Idaho robbed forty-seven graves in search of solid gold fillings and just a few minutes of necrophilia. But none of the corpses where fresh enough nor the families of the buried in the Everlove Mortuary so independently wealthy that they could have afforded solid gold fillings in the lifetimes of the deceased's dental history nor able to allow the gold to stay there, a filling fetching some thirty-five dollars in the Idaho gold market, some fifteen less than was paid for it when it went in in the first place. Others argue for Coolio. Ironically, no one bothers to bring up the East-Coast West-Coast issue when dithering on such matters. Wine, Song: that leaves only women, and as such, an accord was passed by the Oregon County, Maine, legislature to limit the fine for prostitution at a funeral service to, coincidentally enough, thirty-five dollars. In 1883, in a small village in the south America jungle, a tribesman was being interred in the traditional method, that is, by fire, and the men of the village were seen to be giving an unmarried girl pieces of the corpse's burnt dred-locks as promises for services to be rendered later, and it wasn't until a graduate student in anthropology from the University of New York at Antioch was able to determine later that this service was the dressing of dred-locks on these same men. Hardly a case of prostitution, except that in a recent issue of National Geographic, in a story nestled between a report on the spear-fishing resins which have all but resurrected a small town in New Zealand from utter bankruptcy and a five-page map of the voyage of Sir Francis Drake, Dr. Thomas Spreetree explains how dred-locks are the only way this particular tribe engages in sexual dysfunction, procreation being achieved by a ritualistic "circle jerk", after which the men of the village pass out this seminal mixture to the ladies in the village who are in their fertile period. Not only is it odd that after decades of co-habitation the menstrual cycles women of the village are not in sync, but as well that the tribe, which consists at most of about 50 members not including children, chicken, a nest of hamsters, and not a few anthropologists who have become fed-up with so-called civilized society and prefer to spend their days drinking fermented fruit juices and hanging from a hammock holding babies, has never been reported to posses a single genetic disease that would come from this less-than-ideal handling of the spermatozoa, nor the very probable instances of fathers' sperms impregnating daughters and sisters; (men are usually active in these rituals from puberty to their death at about 70 years of age). As a result of this already bizarre ritual, dred-locks are considered akin to running through an elegant tea party, naked and wrestling with one's wang, and the five men who "paid" the lady to give them dreds are an excellent example of a kind of sexually dysfunctional mass hysteria borne of an associational death wish vis the experiencing of seeing a deviant dead before one. Consider Matthew Knight of Disney, England, who at the funeral of his mother who is the only woman in the world who has ever died of auto-erotic asphyxiation, announced to all before him that while the red wine was very tasty and the availability of the white was considerate in view of the recent studies that show some people are more allergic to tannin than others, he was quite shocked by the presence of the ros‚, not to mention the chablis, and that furthermore his mother's favorite rapper, by coincidence, was indeed Jay Z, and that the choice of his music as such was a horribly crass decision, and that if neither Busta nor Coolio was available at the local Sneezyshoppe (north-west England equivalent of the K-Mart) certainly Ice Tea could be found in the bargain bin. Mr. Knight then commenced to dropping his trousers, piercing his scrotum with a specially prepared knitting needle, and in the face of the guests complete lack of a reaction, the most of them being, after all, members of the deceased's sadomasochist society, the only one in north western England, who's membership's ritualistic initiation involves not only knitting needles and scrotums but clitoris hoods and those little tattoos available in boxes of cracker jack between 1975 and 1977, before the FDA and their English equivalent deemed red no. 5 a carcinogenic, stuck the same needle in his left eye. Matt Knight would seem to be suffering from the same condition as the natives, however, what he and they failed to realize is the their death wish can not be granted so to speak through their pursuit of the same sexual dysfunction as the departed, since in nether case did the departed die of his or her sexual dysfunction, the gentleman in the tribe having been chewed to bits by a pack of wild boar, and the mother, while indeed dying in the act of auto-erotic asphyxiation, having engaged in the activity as a means to "wind down," to approach sex as a boring and dull routine, as many of the ladies in the bridge club described sex with their own husbands, ladies who it should be pointed out where not members of Mrs. Knight's society but who's husbands were, and it being the case that the husbands as a means by which to obfuscate their interest in sadomasochism routinely approached sex with their wives as dully and monotonously as possible, under the incorrect perception that these women, ranging in age from 45 to 63, thought of sex as odious. The opposite was actually the case, however, as most of these ladies, including at least two related to the peerage and one 58 year old great-granddaughter of an earl, where hot-to-trot bitches looking to get nailed, hard. Each owned dildoes, purchases at Sneezyshoppe (availability of such the only difference between it and the puritan-founded America's K-mart) but didn't bother tell this to Mrs. Knight, the only one in their club who in it's brief existence successfully bid and won a grand slam contract. Thus she tried what she considered a tame bit of sex, auto-erotic asphyxiation, and died, being able to defy death in the face of fourteen men dressed in hard leather covered with spikes and possessed of hard-ons and e-induced blood lust as well as day-jobs at the ministry of farm taxation, but unable to know when to let go of the rope and enjoy her orgasm. Matthew Knight's impromptu knitting-needle piercing and subsequent half-assed effort at quoting Euripides did not kill him, of course, showing how ill-led his death wish through the supposed halls of his mother's deviancy proved to be, but while Rage Against the Machine is not properly a rap group, Seagram's Golden Coolers is not properly wine, and a recent episode of Party of Five is not properly a funeral, there is indeed a case involving these entities which expertly shows not only what should be quaffed and moshed to at a funeral, but as well illustrates what can occur when one's deviancy leads to demise of a sorts and what will become manifest when one's death wish is fed by participating in the obituative practices for a familiar who passed due to sex. 16 year old Nigel Sudlelun was sitting on his girlfriend's couch in Somerset Colorado at four a.m. on a Wednesday night, watching taped reruns of Party of Five and drinking a cold Seagram's Golden, his fifth, trying during commercial to recall the lyrics to Rage Against the Machine's Vietnow from their second lp, Evil Empire, since in lieu of fast-forwarding through the commercials the girlfriend was in the bathroom. Tracy Prochain, the girlfriend, had just broken up with Logan Magistrate because he tried to force himself on her, and she didn't want him to be tempted by her parents imminent two-week vacation to Orlando. Nigel was allegedly much nicer, anyway. In the middle of a Stouffer's ad he suddenly remembered the words and he leapt up triumphant, startling the girlfriend who had come back into the room wearing a naughty negligee, and causing her to inhale her chewing gum and choke to death. Five of Tracy's very close friends, all of them fans of Marilyn Manson, Young MC, a saucy little cabernet sauvignon from the Gestalt Wineries of Danzig, a town not far from Somerset, and legos, each later asked Nigel out on dates following a harrowing biology examination which was to prove to result in at least three of them losing car privileges for a week and one grounding. Distraught, horny, Nigel could only say yes, and as such was implicated in each of their deaths, all from massive juicy-fruit overdoses. At their funerals: Felitia Bigby, 15, Catholic, Mont Blanc '83 and Newcleus; Robin Garrcol, 15, New Adventist, Austi Pomme-de-Terre and Eminem; Nell Antocal, 16, seventh-day Adventist, chateau fromadiere and N.W.A.; Ashley Nicheste, 15, Baptist (first bible), pierre negro and Master P; Joy Overstreet, 17, reformed methodist, woodbarrel and Biz Mar Kee.
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