In my closet at home, I have one hundred or so postcards stashed away, all of them boasting the same generic beach locale – the sun glistening off crystal clear seas, a palm tree casting its shadow on the white sand, and the words WISH YOU WERE HERE in big block letters darting across the sky like one of those prop planes advertising drink specials for the No Shower Happy Hour at the Jersey Shore. These postcards will be bestowed unto my wife with strict instructions to mail them to their intended destinations exactly two days after my memorial service upon my death (which will be a pirate-themed affair complete with large steins of grog and eye-patches aplenty). Each card will be pre-stamped and individually addressed with personal messages scrawled on the back such as, “Dude, the Afterlife is all that and a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries!”, “I just whooped Keith Moon’s ass in shuffleboard. Holla!”, and “Don’t fuck with my grave or I’ll scalp you and pour road salt on your brain in hell.” Pretty standard material, really. Except for the note to Uncle Craig in Point Pleasant, which explains that, on the Other Side, the string of floss you use between your molars at the end of the day still smells more heinous than your worst bowel movement.
Wait, I probably shouldn't pre-address the postcards. What if people move prior to my earthly demise? And the price of postage seems to increase every six months or so, doesn't it? Perhaps I'll leave behind a "Stamp Fund" for the project. I'll work out the kinks and get back to you.
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