Doomsday Don and My Funeral

I have a friend by the name of Don, whom I call "Doomsday Don" because he is obsessed with real or imagined crises that he is constantly warning me are threatening our way of life if not our very existence. These range from terrorism to global warming and the melting of polar ice that will lead to the extinction of penguins and polar bears, to a newly discovered comet that scientists calculate will strike the earth 80,000 years from now, to the latest imminent fear of a bird flu epidemic, to – worst of all – the hike in juice for poker tournament buy-ins.



Anyway, the other day he finally gave me some cheery news. He informed me I was one of his circle of friends to whom he planned to leave $100 in his will for each of us to spend on a good dinner. What a classy thing to do. I've never been in anyone's will before (even though railbirds are always telling me that if I stake them, they'll leave me in their will), and even though Don is a nice enough guy, I can't wait for him to die so that I can collect the Franklin and enjoy a feast in his honor.



I started to think of doing the same thing, but I don't think it would work out, because most of my friends would have trouble spending $100 in the places they eat, where the top price is usually $5.95; but not Big Denny, of course. A hundred bucks wouldn't get him much past the appetizers at McDonald's. I suppose Mike Paulle could use it to get into a buffet, where he has to pay a surcharge before they'll let him start chowing down. The trouble with him, though, is that most buffets won't even let him in. You know those black books that Vegas casinos use to identify and keep out undesirables? Buffets have them, too, and Paulle is on the opening page of every one of them.



Then I had a better idea. I'm now thinking of leaving each of my poker pals $40 for a buy-in to one of the $4-$8 Omaha eight-or-better games that most of them favor. But there will have to be a catch in my will. Before my poker buddies can collect, they'll first have to come to my funeral. Otherwise, you loan money to a poker player and you may never see him again.



Once I got to thinking about it, I began to fantasize about custom-designing my whole funeral in a poker theme. Wouldn't that be fun? I'm sure that Barry Shulman would run a nice story about it in Card Player – provided, of course, that I also left enough money in my will to pay for an ad in the same issue of the magazine.



Then I had an even better idea. Why not write about it now in my Card Player column, and get paid for it? That would earn me enough for two or even three of those $5.95 dinners. It might even get me an entry into the Guinness Book of World Records as the only man ever to get paid for writing about his own funeral.



What kind of funeral would I like? Nothing garish, of course. Certainly not like the ceremony that Hunter Thompson, the oddball "gonzo" journalist who wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, planned for himself. As per his instructions, Thompson recently had his ashes shot into the sky via some sort of cannon. Try that in Los Angeles and you'll get fined for air pollution.



No, I'd prefer a traditional ceremony with some modest refinements. To start with, I don't want any of that depressing funeral music. I'd like them to play Kenny Rogers' The Gambler. That should liven things up.



I'll have the ushers wear string ties and name tags, and instruct the rabbi to wear an eyeshade over his yarmulke. To make everyone feel like he's in a cardroom, I'll require every mourner to post his or her initials on a sign-up board, and they'll all have to wait to be called before being seated. To make it even more realistic, I'll have them wait an average of about four hours.



Of course, I'll employ my talents to write the eulogy myself. Otherwise, everyone will be forced to listen to the usual pious platitudes, praise, and tributes to me, at which my pals in the pews would only snicker.



I'll probably throw in some good lines for the eulogy. You know, like, "Max folds," or, "How's this for a really bad beat, folks?" Or, best of all, "I see Max is drawing dead again." On the other hand, that might be a little too flippant. I guess I'll go for something a little more dignified, maybe that standard boring line about going to that big poker game in the sky.



Then the rabbi could read passages from some of my funnier columns; not the Big Denny pieces, though. Those might infuriate him enough to run up and overturn my casket. And then the mourners would be invited to say a few words. Of course, I already know what some of them will say.



Dirty Wally: "Let me tell you about some of my bad beats."



Ralph the Rattler: "Everyone is invited to a game at my house right after the ceremony."



Oklahoma Johnny Hale: "Anyone here wanna buy mah book?"



Big Denny: "When do we eat?"



I'd like to be laid out in my working clothes, the way my friends remember me best: T-shirt, cap, and jacket from whichever casinos or online sites would pay me the most for sporting their logos.



In one hand, I'd like to clutch cards representing my favorite Omaha starting hand, A-A-2-3 double-suited; in the other hand, a portable fan as a protest against all the casino smoke I had to inhale in years past that probably ended up killing me in the first place.



After they lower me into the ground, I'd prefer to dispense with the yucky custom of having each mourner toss a shovelful of dirt on my coffin … much as they'd like to. Instead, I'd be happier if each of my poker friends would throw in a couple of chips – no 50-cent pieces, please. Railbirds will be permitted to toss in IOUs. Action Al, I imagine, will drop in a check.



Finally, for my grave marker, I'd like a heart, spade, diamond, and club in each corner of my grave marker, with a joker in the middle. The inscription will be memorably simple: "Deal me out for a while."