originally posted Oct 11, 2017
So Cyranny answered some questions I posted for my nominees for the Inspirational Blogger Award. ..and they got me thinking. (oh NO, Suze is thinking again!!!)
Cyr remarked “I think I’d find a way to sail to Denmark, find a little farm on the coast, gather a few farm animals, and pretend Mads is at sea, and that I’m just waiting for his return… Until something wrong happens, like me getting kicked by my horse, run over by my cow, me falling down a cliff, or eating the wrong berries”. And my first thought was “run over by cow?? What a great obit comment!”.
Except she’d be the last human on Earth when she was run over so who would write her obit? Her cow?
Well, that won’t do at all! Obits are for us to read and think “thank God that didn’t happen to me” or “thank goodness I am not dead yet”. (yes, I have a really warped sense of humor)
So….I thought…we could just write our obits NOW and then when we are finally gone someone can post them somewhere for us so we shall be remembered appropriately. I arbitrarily decided that I shall have a blog page entitled “Our horrid legacy” and place all obits there. Add your own horrid legacy in the comments which shall remain open…………well at least until WP decides I was serious (and really gone never to return) and they delete my account!
Cyranny: A lovely bloggery-buddy from Freezingland today left this physical veil for parts unknown. Her demise came about by a rather ridiculous series of events. While sowing her wild oats, Miss Cyr gathered some sweet smelling berries and munched on them while falling over a small cliff. Her horse, Mads, kicked her on the way down and neighed for her cow, Babs, to stomp upon her as she landed. She will be fondly remembered by the rabbits.
Suze: An elderly, semi-senile and totally crotchety old fart from the plains of Oklahoma rose to glory late yesterday afternoon. She will be remembered for her adventures in shopping, her snarky letters to the editor of local and national newspapers, her constant harassment of elected officials and her adoration of making pickles. Suze leaves behind a dog that makes phone calls and types on the computer, a cat of very little taste who has decimated the local mouse population and her poor long-suffering hubby, George. Her children have long since disowned her for writing exaggerated and embarrassing blog posts about them. Suze’s last request was that her ashes be sent in a plain white envelope with block letter addresses to all elected officials with whom she has disagreed.
Poor George, beloved hubby of Suze, and resident of Suziland by default has gone to that big train depot in the sky. Right to the end, at age 91, he would do things like pushing fist bumps at perfect strangers, playing boogie woogie and other foot- tapping piano right in front of innocent people, and racing to beat other oldsters to empty chairs (which is how he tripped and broke his hip, leading eventually to his well-earned demise). His children, while
delighted disturbed heart broken, request assistance in clearing out the detritus stuff junk miniature trains and accessories from the house, shed, barn and trunk of the family vehicle.