My birth, death, and high-school graduation should be celebrated with a feast, a day of mourning, and a Sadie Hawkins dance, respectively.
The feast should have a “me” theme. My favorite foods—turkey sandwiches, half-sour pickles, popcorn, and strawberry-rhubarb pie—ought to be available in abundance. Please avoid serving cold soups. I find the thought of them hideous. Also, there should be a kids’ table where little brothers sit.
On the day of mourning, the observant should gather to tell sad stories and trade cards with my statistics on the back. The person who tells the saddest story will receive the most valuable card and so on down the line. The person who tells the least sad story will have to sit in shame with George and the rest of the little brothers at the kids’ table.
At the Sadie Hawkins dance, the women ought to feel a subtle, needling pressure to pick older brothers. Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” should be played at least twice. All kisses will be French.
I insist that each statue built in my honor be context-sensitive and culturally aware. Host communities should dress my likeness in the clothes of the wealthiest and most successful person that anyone in the area has ever heard of. If there is a disagreement on who that might be, the tie goes to the most flowing robe. Under no circumstances can this be George’s robe, although, with his broad shoulders, he’d never be able to pull off something really elegant anyway.
My statue should be cast in the second-most-expensive material available, with the first-most-expensive material reserved for my eyes, which should look woefully understanding. It should go without saying that I be rendered huge. If depicted with George, he should be bowing to me in praise.
Along with miniature versions of my many statues, the Franklin Mint ought to issue commemorative coins in my honor. On the front of the coin, I should appear in profile, driving with one hand on the steering wheel. It ought to be evident that Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son” is playing loudly on the car stereo. The back of the coin should read “E Pluribus Unum.” Above the text will be a picture of my family in a human pyramid. I will be standing at the top with my foot on George’s head.
George can’t write my biography. In fact, there should be no g’s in any of the books that discuss my life. I leave it to the editors to replace all of them with asterisks or simply rewrite the texts without that letter.
It’s so unfair. He’s had it so easy his whole life. That should definitely be in the books: that I helped him with his homework and his admissions essays. No one knows that. randma sure didn’t before she left him the house in Amaansett, did she? Uh, eor e.