There’s no two ways about it, funerals are a stone-bummer. And not only that- they’re boring.
The way I see it, you can’t have ‘Funeral’ without ‘Fun’, and the remaining ‘eral’ is an anagram of the word ‘Real’.
Ipso facto: Funeral=Really fun.
So now, at the risk of appearing deeply morbid and not a little self-absorbed, here’s how I want my interment played out.

MY FUNERAL!

Firstly, upon entering the church, everyone will be furnished with a garland of garlic and a sack of quaters. These will be distributed at the door by two drunken Hawaiian girls who should be equally surly as they are topless. Next, the confused attendees will be ushered to their seats (coin operated kiddie-rides) by a horde of whip-brandishing, leather-clad ogres.
Once seated, guests will be instructed to feed quarters into their rides for the duration of the ceremony. Anyone caught sitting astride a stationary pew will receive a taste of the lash. Finally, when the room is merrily lurching and whirring with the groan of timeworn hydraulics, my casket lid will creak open to reveal that I have been made up like Dracula: The cape, the fangs, the whole nine yards. This will elicit a great gasp of horror, and The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (stage right) will take that as their cue to begin chugging out a low, slow-mounting, doom-blues.
Verne Troyer will emerge from the carcass of a 4000 lb great white shark (stage left) and begin reading a long, pre-prepared litany of complaints regarding everyone present. This screed will be so utterly contemptuous, so awesomely hateful that it will give rise to nausea, and many attendees will begin projectile vomiting while others look on in bewildered horror. This part of the ceremony will spool out forever and slumberous attendees will be kept awake by way of the lash.
Eight hours later Verne will come to the end of my list of grievances and silently moon-walk back into the shark’s guts. Now, and only now, will the nominated pallbearers be allowed to dismount and wearily approach my coffin. The Blues Explosion will have worked themselves up to a demonic sweat-drenched frenzy by this stage, and as the pallbearers reach for the carved ivory handles of my sarcophagus- the theremin will zap to life with an evil yowl and my corpse will begin to rise out like a charmed snake. This will all be done with invisible high-tensile wiring and will look very cool. High over the congregation my mortal remains will drift and slowly make their way toward the double doors of the church, which will, in turn, begin opening to let me out. Once outside I’ll slide up the front wall of the cathedral until I’m pinned against the cross at it’s highest steeple, and then I’ll explode.