TiTs!

My funeral will be held at the titty bar. That's where I want people to remember me. I want my ashes poured on Wendy's boobs as she gyrates and flashes her nonjudgemental grin. Wendy is my favourite of the dancers. Bendy Wendy they call her. The trace of scorn that is faintly detectable in the eyes of the other girls is absent from Wendy. She enjoys her work. She takes pride in it. Have you seen the way she transforms herself into a spinning human pretzel? It's incredible. It's beautiful. It's so much better than the lethargic swaying of those who would rather be glamour modelling or assisting a magician or working as an usher in an adult cinema. Bendy Wendy gives me reason to rise from my bed each day and this is why I ask that her cleavage be my final resting place. This is why I request that her mammaries be my memorial. I can see her now, slowly moving to the Funeral March as I am laid to rest on her generous breasts.

Some complain that Wendy's whoppers are 'fake'. That her charm would count for nothing if she was sans silicone but I see it a different way. I prefer the term 'enhanced' and aren't the best things in life enhanced? Nature gives us the raw material and we work with it, enhancing its qualities. Master chefs enhance flavours, all Wendy has done is enhance her knockers. She has knockout knockers. I told her as much. Just the other day, I shouted at her, 'Wendy, you've got knockout knockers'. She seemed complimented. Her grin broadened a little. Some of the others said she didn't understand me. They say she doesn't even speak English. They say that she is from a cold and bitter country and that her name isn't even Wendy. They say that she goes backstage after every performance and gazes at a creased photograph of a child that she keeps amongst her personal effects. They say that she sobs. What they say just makes me appreciate Wendy all the more. What a trouper. Despite all her troubles she comes out dancing and gives everyone a good time. 'You're a real trouper Wendy!' That's what I'll shout at her tomorrow. Even if she doesn't understand me, she'll get the sentiment. I'm a sentimental man. My send off will be similarly sentimental. It will be the saddest day ever at the titty bar but Wendy will be grinning because she knows that you've got to keep smiling no matter what knocks you take. Yeah, Wendy may have taken a few knocks but like her knockout knockers, she always comes bouncing back.

And, in a way, aren't we all heartbroken topless dancers at the titty bar of life? And rather than lethargically swaying and visibly wishing we were elsewhere, shouldn't we all just grin and gyrate and make the best of it? Gyrating and hoping that someone will slip a few bucks into our garter to send home to little Fedor so he can save up and one day, maybe, have enough to slip into the garter of some other heartbroken topless dancer that reminds him of his mother and causes a tear to come to his eye as he recalls the day she left him in the care of his grandparents and hugged him and kissed him a final time before walking out the door and leaving Slavingrad forever. Isn't that the way things are?

I think that is the way things are and that's the kind of thing I want everyone at my funeral to be thinking as Wendy wobbles and mourners weep and the whole world spins around again.