ASSIGNMENTS:
|
|
missrottingpumpkinhead
Austin, Texas USA
|
|
REPORTS:
PREVIOUS NEXT
|
|
God, I hope it was quick and painless. Now down to business. One thing must be made extremely clear to all persons and parties involved in the disposal of my body once I seized to breathe. Under no circumstances are my remains to be buried. A soon as possible, please have my body cremated in the family barbeque pit. If the body must be cut to accommodate the size of the bit, use the sword I smuggled from Mˇxico in an ice chest. If there are no friends or family who desire to go about the cutting and burning of my body then take the barbeque pit to the crematorium and have a professional go about it. Countless mouth watering meals were smoked in that pit. Hunger aside, so many memorable conversations and celebrations arose while gathered with family and friends around the dinner table sharing Dad's carnivorous creations. Place a heavily marinated rack of baby back ribs on top of my body and send me off smacking. That will complete step one.
Once the process of turning my body into ash is complete the remains are to be sorted into five equal piles. Five was always my luck number. I was born on the fifth, the number fifty five appeared in every gas purchase, and a five was always somewhere in my alarm clock configuration. It must be five. Each pile will be put in to specific carriers, which I will describe along with each stage of my scattering.
The first portion is to be taken to New Braunfels, Texas, and scattered under the fighting tree in the backyard of my first home, my childhood home. The remains are to be carried in an empty Peter Pan Creamy Peanut Butter jar. Elissa, Mom, Dad or Ellis if y'all are still alive once I die, I want you to take them and scatter them around the base of the tree. In the event that I am the last survivor of the five Ussery's, then to whom this may concern, there will be an obvious marking on the tree that will distinguish it from the others. The tree grows into a perfect V, can't miss it. If you are looking straight on at the old house on 187 Basel Street, it is to the left of the porch. At the pointed dip of the V shaped branches there is a thick blue dog leash that is embedded into the bark of the tree. It was put there to be used as a rope swing when we emulated the moves of our favorite WWF Wrestlers and Ninja Turtles. We would stage fight sequences under this tree and the last kid standing was either crowned master ninja or The Undertaker. Over time the bark grew over the blue leash and became a reminder of childhood adventures past, long after the urge to defeat Shredder or Rod Rodney Piper had pasted.
The second pile will be driven out to the ranch by any living member of my family or a friend(s) who intimately know the property. This portion is to be carried in a green canteen. Mom, Dad, Elissa, George you all know exactly what incident I speak of and what spot it took place at so I need not say any more. But, if you are one of the friends described above then this is for you. Upon entering the ranch, follow the predominate road that leads to the cabin. You will need to drive all the way to the section of the road and stop where the roads begins to curve towards the final stretch to the cabin. In the middle of the road, just to the bottom right of the power line off to the left of the road, you will see a visible dip. If it has rained there will be visible mud tire track. If it is dry the dip will be quite noticeable. The ashes are to be scattered sparingly along the edges of the dip, a hand full placed directly in the center. This spot is where I mistook a dragon fly for a wasp when I was six or seven years old. A heavy rain had prohibited vehicular entry, due to the lack of four wheel drive in the Subaru, so we had to make our way in foot. Not only was it muddy, but a cow had recently given birth in the dip and its bloody placenta was spread along the top of the muddy walk way. The further I walked in the more my tiny ridding boots sunk in the goo. Approximately two feet out of the muddy, bloody dip something buggish flew towards me. My frustration and anxiety over crossing the disgusting substance took hold of me and I freaked out. Mistaking the dragonfly for a wasp, which is what I had been attacked by on a previous camping excursion and been viciously stung while eating a ham and mustard sandwich, I turned to run. Not two lunges aback towards my dad, who was behind me, and I was elbow deep in the bloody mud. The mess was all over my clothes and sections of my exposed epidermis. Everyone laughed in their clean clothes as I uncontrollably cried over my situation. At the time it was quite difficult finding the humor in my wretched circumstance, it was something I learned from. The importance in the ability to laugh at one's self became evident to me down the road anytime the story was reminisced in front of guests our simply among the family. That competes stage two of my disposal.
The third pile will be taken to the San Antonio International Airport. Any one can complete this stage. The mode of my transportation will be an airplane barf bag. As much as I loved my immediate family while on earth, sometimes you drove me nuts and I had to get out of town. From SAT's runways I was safely whisked to memorable destinations across the globe. This is was where most all of my memorable adventures took off from and where they came to rest once the exploration was over. My first flight was with my grandma, Millie, to Lubbock. From SAT I flew once every six weeks to Denton to visit Dana and Jacob when they moved. Our family trips to Mexico and New York City were from SAT. My summer in Connecticut, my protesting visits to Washington, D.C., play time in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, London Calling, and Portland, brewery capital of the world, Oregon, all started and ended at one place, San Antonio International Airport. Assuming that terrorist activity will hamper airport travel for the rest of man kinds existence, I don't expect it to get any easier to walk onto a runway without getting shot, arrested, or thrown into a Guantanamo Bay prison cell for an undetermined duration. To be safe, ask someone how one would go about completing this task. I am most certain it can be done. Allow the security search of my remains that will follow this request. If it comes down to a flight attendant, a plane mechanic, or the person who shoots blanks in the air to scare birds from interfering with the aircraft actually having to take the ashes to the run way this is completely fine by me. The ashes must be poured down the center stripe of the runway, so the next plane to take off or land on the runway will scatter my ashes in its gust. Just make sure it is not an Air India aircraft. Those fuckers lost my luggage and never returned it. When this task is complete only two will remain. Good luck my predecessors!
The portion of the fourth pile is going to have to be physically handled, so only friends and family with strong stomachs should attempt it. You know who you are. This portion should be kept in a Folger's coffee can. I want a pinch of my ashes to be sprinkled in every jacket cover of every record in my vinyl collection. Make sure each record is in its plastic lining. Also make sure the ashes settle to the bottom of the cover than put the record back into the jacket cover, as to preserve the quality of the vinyl. Once this is finished, whoever's responsibility it becomes (because someone better do it or I will haunt you all!), I want you to take the records to Half Price Books on Broadway, in San Antonio, Texas. If that location no longer exists then find one and sell the records there. This way when someone buys my old records a little piece of me will go along with them and I will forever be able to listen to my beloved records. Think of it as networking, I will be able to become familiar with all those who buy what I used to so joyfully listen to. Regardless of what they fetch, donate the money to Orca Whale preservation. Someone has to save the whales and it might was well be me. Philanthropy was always an activity I enjoyed. Four down, one to go.
Ash pile number five, the most important yet. The last of my remains is to be taken to the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. They are to be carried there in a black top hat by my children, assuming I have them. If I die old and alone, then I want a well respected Union soldier/ Civil War reenactor to preform the task. They are to be scattered from the base of the statue's steps, ending with the last bit of my remains placed at the feet of this Nation's greatest leader and by far its best looking. Abe the Babe and I, forever observing the activity on Capital Hill. Maybe we will just make fun of the tourists who still consider a fanny pack to be a fashionable travel accessory.
A thanks to all of those who participated in this five stage process of my ash scattering. Hope to see you on the other side. Much love for the underdog, missrottingpumpkinhead.
|
|
|
|
|
|
