I’ve been to three funerals in the past month—each more agonizing than the last.

That’s approximately three more funerals than I’ve been to in the last five years.

It got me to thinking about—well, mortality.

The fact is—you’re dead a helluva lot longer than you’re alive.

Each of the services I attended were lovely. They were also dramatically different. One was very woo-woo and esoteric. One was reverent and reserved. And one was, uh, decidedly Catholic. (If you know, you know.)

I’ve decided that my funeral will be a lavish laugh-fest. Anything less is unacceptable. In fact, whoever is in charge of it, please tell the event planner—and, yes, there will be an event planner, dammit!—that’s what I want. Lavish. Laugh-fest.

Think decadent and droll.

Or costly and comical.

In fact, my celebration of life needs to border on waggish. (And if the event planner doesn’t know what that word means, fire them immediately.) I’m thinking DJ Edil Hernandez spinning 80s remixes is mandatory, but I could be swayed by a New Orleans-style jazz band. Mebbe both.

I will need two people to keep the ceremony moving along. I’m guessing my bestie Kiki and my other bestie Jeff are perfectly suited for this. They’re lively, but not too lively—a good sort of one-two punch. They’re also both teachers and know how to command a room.

The pacing is crucial. If there’s a lull at my services, I swear I will personally come back to haunt everyone’s sorry ass.

Friends will shamelessly line up to give zippy speeches and fondly remember me for my quirks—like my later-in-life obsession with birding. Or how I was eerily clairvoyant, but not in a creepy way. There will be plenty of self-deprecating humor and jokes made at my expense. Laughter will be abundant. Nodding in agreement will be rampant. If you find yourself hard-pressed for verbiage, please discuss accordingly with my acerbic galpal Sarah Walters. In under four minutes, she can rewrite anyone’s script and punch it up with better material.

My deliciously vampy friend Lyra should be strategically positioned out in the audience wearing oversized sunglasses and a gigantic black hat/veil combo that engulfs her. Everyone will wonder who she is. Suck up to her accordingly—as she’s in charge of the raging VIP afterparty that absolutely no one knows about. You can only hope to God your name is on her bedazzled clipboard.

In the middle of the services, my friend Mithra will inexplicably lead some sort of Zen-tastic, Buddhist-adjacent meditation—complete with Zaphir chimes. Since most of you will likely be high or blotto, this should give you 15 minutes to snooze. Even in the afterlife, I’m still pro-naps.

My snarky friend Keith—who doesn’t put up with anyone’s shit—will comprise a clip reel highlighting all of the A-list celebs I’ve interviewed. He’ll introduce it and remind the audience that I was way more famous in my head than I was in real life. People will murmur things like, “I didn’t know he interviewed Dennis Weaver. That’s incredible.”

My bestie-boo Erin will then remind the blithely bereaved of my journalistic endeavors and my obsession with The B-52s. Seconds later, she will—with both aplomb and casual indifference—introduce Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson, who will stroll out from the wings and sing an acoustic version of “Roam.” Mouths will drop. There won’t be a dry eye in the house. (PS. That’s the only time you’re allowed to weep, people.)

Finally, chef Jasper will rev the crowd back up and end the services by telling a few inappropriate anecdotes about me and gifting everyone with an entire coconut cake on their way out the door. (He’s also catering the raging VIP afterparty. If you’re lucky enough to score an invite, be advised—there’s gonna be a festival-style metal detector out front. He’s Sicilian—and he don’t play. You’ve been warned.)

In life, there are only three things you can count on. The first two are death and taxes. The final one is that my funeral will be a splendiferous affair. That being said, each and every one of you better go out of your way to be nice to my three beloved aunties who will be in attendance. They’re old-school and I’ll guarantee you they’ll have no idea what the hell is going on. Bless.