This YEAR In America’s Worst Jobs: Burying Musicians

27 09 2012

People often go back one hundred years and look at all the wild changes that have happened since then. Oh shit! One hundred years ago we had to use a telegraph to call grandma, now we can iPhone face time at the drop of a hat! One hundred years ago you had to sail for six months to get to Asia, now we can hop on a 767 and fly to China in a day! One hundred years ago Harry Houdini ruled the magic world by freeing himself from jail cells, now days David Blaine hermetically seals himself in a giant jar of mayo suspended 6,000 feet above Mile High Stadium for a fortnight. One hundred years ago women couldn’t vote, now they attempt basketball!

Change has been tremendous no doubt, and all of those things certainly illustrate that, but I think one thing in particular epitomizes it greater than the rest. What’s that one thing, JD? Thanks for asking brah! That one thing is the burial demands of famous musicians. The transformation of the burial requests of America’s musicians over the last one hundred years has been nothing short of astounding. More change than the nalgene i store change in at home, and trust me that bitch is overflowing with nickels. Probably should hit a Coinstar soon. But guess what, it’s not the musicians that are affected the most by this. Nope. It’s the goddamn funeral homes. Those guys have been doubling up shifts as of late and I found it necessary to nominate them for this weeks edition of America’s Worst Jobs.

We’re right around the point in the artie most of you are thinking, J to the D, you crazy bro. I’m lost as fuck. Whatchu talkin bout willis? Let me explain, guys. Let’s list some famous music icons of 1912. The Heidelberg Quintet, Elsie Baker, Alma Gluck, W.C. Handy, ummm and I think maybe the Maple Leaf Rag was a hot jam? Think any of them had wild post-mortem requests? No freakin way. Straight up toss me in a box and light that shit on fire yo. Throw some dirt on my corpse and we’ll call it good. That was it.

Let’s fast forward to today and take a peek at a few burial demands of today’s music stars:

 

The Band Perry’s Kimberly Perry:

“If I die young, bury me in satin, Lay me down on a bed of roses. Sink me in the river at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song”

“Young” to this bish is probably less than 80 so saddle up Johnstone Funeral Services, you’re in for a real treat. First find a canoe, preferably whittled from the finest cherry wood. Scatter four hundred  fresh roses in that bitch. Then buy a satin Vera Wang burial gown. Dress the broad up in it, and lay her corpse gently in the previously mentioned canoe. DO NOT BREAK ANY OF THE ROSES. Then find the nearest river, apparently poke some holes in the canoe so it sinks, oh and don’t forget a boombox so you can put Boyz II Men on while she’s sinking.

Rick Ross:

“If I’d die today, remember me like John Lennon 
Bury me in Louis, I’m talkin all brown linen 
Make all of my bitches tattoo my logo on they titty 
Put a statue of a nigga in the middle of the city”

Ricky has some unique requests. Some make sense, others, not so much. Remembering The Boss in a similar way to how we remember John Lennon seems easy enough. “Hey remember John Lennon? He was sweet. Yeah, but also remember Ricky Ross? I do. He was sweet as hell.” Boom, remembered. The Louis linens coffin, that’s understandable too. Rick’s always rockin Lou. The rest gets a little more complicated. Round up all of Ricky’s bitches and give em MMG titty ink. Then hire a team of sculptors and build a statue of Mr. Ross in the middle of Miami. Carve it from gold too, none of this pussy silver shit.

2 Chainz

When I die, bury me inside the Louis store. When I die, bury me inside the Gucci store.”

“So when I die, bury me next to two bitches”

Which one is it 2? Louis or Gucci store? Can’t be both, they’re goddamn competitors for christsake. And its not like we’re tossing half of your corpse in the Louis store and half in the Gucci store. Pretty sure that qualifies as sacrilege and what have you. Then on top of installing a burial vault in the middle of a high end retail store, he’s also requesting a dual-bitch sacrifice. That’s some pharaoh level shit right there. Basically the blood of two innocent women must be shed. No easy task, I’ll say that much. Guess you could eat em.

 

As you can see, times have changed. Performing a burial isn’t quite what it used to be. That’s why being a cemetery worker in Hollywood would be one of America’s worst jobs. Sure you get to see famous people…after they’re dead. They can’t say your favorite movie line or autograph your left tittie or loan you five grand interest free. Plus, with all these wild requests, you’re obviously working overtime and I’d guess the Grim Reaper doesn’t pay time and a half. Cheap bastard.

So next time you die, don’t forget to thank your neighborhood cemetery worker. They got a pretty tough gig.

 

– JD

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15 11 2012
This Week In America’s Worst Jobs: The Milk Truck «

[…] featured to date. So far we’ve had Dez Bryant’s baby sitters, we’ve had burying famous musicians, but I think this one takes the cake. Everyone, feast your eyes on “The Milk Truck”. […]

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