Notes to be Placed at the Back of my Funeral Program
By Hawk Vidal
To my dear wife Elizabeth:
The business is not going well; I filed Chapter Eleven last month. Our Schwab savings account has a balance of $4.19, My SEP IRA has $11.23. I have not made a payment on my million dollar life insurance policy in the last seven years and it was cancelled in March, 2001. I sold the house we live in back in 2003 and have been paying rent of $3,800 to the new owner, my secretary Sally, each month; this month’s rent is delinquent. So is her mortgage. Ditto the real estate taxes. My love, the business trip I made last year to Cleveland was not for business; neither was it to Cleveland.
To my brother Charley:
Your youngest boy isn’t yours. It was not intentional – we had an accident. Sorry.
To Senator Johnston:
The complete truth about your political action committee has been typed out, signed and notarized and is in safe deposit box #22314 at the Bank of America branch on Fulton Avenue. The lock will need to be drilled as I’ve lost the key. I’m sure either the Attorney General or the IRS will be happy to drill it for you. By now Sally has notified them both.
To my next door neighbor Fred:
There’s a reason your electric bill has been so high these past twelve years. Have a look at the extra wires in the circuit box in your garage.
To my attorney Harold:
Most of the $25,000 loan you advanced me last month has just been paid to a hit man. You can talk to him about collecting it. He’ll be by soon.
To my Pastor:
I’ve only been born once. I was never lost.
To my Sally:
Your husband didn’t run out on you in 1997. He’s down at the Lake Valley Mall where they built the addition that year; in the lobby, under the concrete.
To my Aunt Mabel:
Those aren’t Uncle Herbert’s ashes in that urn by your fireplace. We nephews couldn’t raise enough money to cremate him. The ashes are from the barbeque pit at Hidden Lakes Park. Uncle Herbert is in a garbage bag somewhere at the Great Basin County Landfill.
To the District Attorney of Great Basin County:
The undertaker has been instructed to place me in a closed casket – naked, backward and upside down. This is so that after the service and just before the burial the lid can be opened and you and all your wannabe-someone assistant district attorneys can file by and kiss my ass.
To the rest of you, all:
Do not say “God rest his soul” about me; A hap has happened; I want my soul to be bouncing around Heaven like a chicken with it’s head cut off, bursting with bullshit and kibitzing with the glad-handers; I want my soul juiced up, not lying about dumb and soft like an oyster fart bubble; And I want hucksters with bullhorns up there announcing my officialness if I so much as take out the trash, blow my nose or go to the john. Bless You.
Hawk Vidal, now sixty something, has settled down for awhile in the East San Francisco Bay Area. He is divorced again, has five almost grown children and is a rich California Real Estate Broker, currently working for crumbs at a pest control company because that’s what he feels like doing right now.