My Posthumous Pet Peeves

Evelyn scribbled furiously in her will, a wicked grin playing on her lips. “Item four,” she dictated to her very uncomfortable solicitor, Mr. Finch, “my remains are to be interred in a clear, plexiglass coffin.” Mr. Finch gulped. “Ma’am, with all due respect, that’s rather… unusual.” Evelyn cackled. “Precisely! I want people to see, truly *see*, that I’m actually dead. No fake-out, no ‘she looks so peaceful.’ I want them to confront the grim reality, preferably after they’ve had a few too many glasses of cheap sherry at the wake.”

She continued, “And my eulogy? It absolutely must be delivered by Brenda from accounting. She always hated me, and I want her excruciating discomfort to be palpable. Make sure she reads *every* word of the unflattering poem I’ve written about her. Oh, and the coffin. It needs to be positioned directly under a faulty gutter pipe. I want a steady drip, drip, drip. Just to really hammer home the futility of existence, and to annoy anyone lingering too long by my eternal slumber. And for my headstone? ‘Here Lies Evelyn. Told You I Was Sick.’ I think it’s a fitting epitaph. Or perhaps, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience. Not really.’” She leaned back, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. “Now, about the open bar… it needs to run out of gin precisely two hours in.”