A Thousand Miles From The Place I Was Born

In case you were wondering what kind of crazy weirdo I will be when I finally grow up, I hope I will be a little bit like Hazel.

(Thanks to Chris at C Squared Plus 3 for posting this first. I am not above stealing stuff off other people’s blogs, but I am always careful to give mad props.)

And when I die, I think I will adopt the policy of my friend L’s grandfather. He and his wife prepared for their death in every way possible, down to the clothes they would wear, who would speak at the service, and which casket they wanted to be buried in. It was all planned out to avoid as much hassle for the family as possible. In the event of their death, all anyone had to do was to place one phone call. No decisions to make, nothing to pay for, easy peasy.

Except for one teensy little problem.

Grandpa found out that if he or his wife were to die outside of the state of Utah, the family would be subjected to a $5000 fee to transport the body back into the state. Ouch. That is a major kink in the works. But Grandpa found a way around it. He placed a phone call to L’s Dad.

He said, “Son, I need you to do something for me,” and then proceeded to tell his son that if he died outside of the state of Utah, his wanted him to drive down, pick up his body, and transport it himself to the lovely town of Beaver, Utah, where the mortician would meet them to pick up the body. His son was understandably horrified. He argued that he couldn’t drive up I-15 with a dead body strapped into the passenger seat. I mean, Weekend at Bernie’s was a stupid movie, and no one would buy that crap in real life.

He asked his father, “What if I get stopped by a state trooper?” His Dad quite seriously replied, “You just tell him you thought I was sleeping.” In Grandpa’s eyes, apparently, saving 5 Grand is worth risking your son spending the night in jail for desecration of a corpse.

Seriously, people, I can’t make this stuff up.