O, To Be A Mortician!

O, To Be A Mortician!

O Loveliest of Lives! O Sweetest of Dreams! To be a mortician, and spend my night frolicking in the palaces of embalmment, listening to The B-52s, and their array of ambrosial music through a boom box on the sterile steel countertop while I inject humectants into the skin of recently deceased human beings to temporarily preserve them! Such wonders are only, of course, reveries to a soul such as me—passing fancies to one without the empyreal gifts of funereal director-ship, and yet, oh and yet! What a glorious dream it is!

While other boys played with their fire trucks and bouncy balls, I said, “Enough of your foolish games! We’re four years for Christ’s sake! The time for this frippery is over!” Then I would arrange their dogs’ funerals with an after party using social media in a very classy way.

Oh! If only for one brief, brief wondrous day, to awake in a bed two stories above a crypt containing the refrigerated remains of once-living people whose relatives have contacted me for the purpose of preventing their decomposition. To gallivant forth from the warm summer day into the stone basement below, echoing with the beaming sound of “Rock Lobster,” by The B-52s, strumming from the boom box like the cresting hum of angels naked and dancing about in the frothy clouds above.

And yet, oh most heavenly of possibilities! O, such a nectar-glowing existence it would be! To know that science of injecting cavity fluids into the trocar incision! To—

Oh, and yet I spoil myself! Such a fantasy is not to be! O, at best I can hope only to be a mortician’s assistant, or perhaps the head of a crematorium. Then, in the dimmest shades of night, I would perhaps sneak into the mortician’s lab, slowly raise the musical genius of The B-52s “Love Shack,” and rejoice at the little glory that is being in the proximity of the greatness that is to be a mortician.

But O! how I dream!