Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Will Always Love You (And Dead at a Drive-Through)

I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to honor the life of Whitney Houston, who passed away on February 11th.  RIP, lady.  RIP.  If you didn’t know that she passed away, please go away.  If you don’t care, same thing.

[initiate moment of silence – play video]

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Now that we’ve talked about Whitney Houston’s passing, I’m going to segue smoothly into something else death-related (there was really no way to go about that smoothly…sorry).  We all know America.  The United States of America.  Amurrica.  We also all know America’s unbelievably prevalent tendency to turn everything into the fastest version of itself.  Internet is constantly getting faster, food takes five seconds to prepare (and to eat), bank drive-throughs, all grocery stores and pharmacies have self-checkouts to speed up the process, you can order food from your table using a computer and not a waitress.  I can’t tell if it’s efficiency or laziness or a combination of both…but that’s a conversation for another time.  What I do know is that in some instances, it’s completely inappropriate and bananasss.  For example, when people die.

Aside from people who cover themselves in peanut butter and chocolate, and people who get in fights over brownies, and people who refuse to wear clothing, and people who raise hamster armies, this is definitely one of the more disturbing things I’ve encountered recently.

Not only can you drive-through to pick up your coffee, your prescriptions or your dinner, but you can also do a drive-through funeral.

Oh yes, it’s TROO!!!  You don’t even have to get out of your car to pay your respects to someone.  Ay carammmmmbaaaa! Que conveniencia!!!! (Eek no hablo espanol).

Ok — so this funeral home is in Compton, LA (that’s in California).  I’ll be frank – I wouldn’t want to get out of my car there either.  BUT STILL.

SRSLY?  SOMEONE DIED, PEOPLE.  The LEAST you can do is get off your ass before you die and wish someone farewell and bon voyage to hell or heaven or some half-way place or another body or maybe just six-feet-under.  It don’t matter.

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3 large bananasss (that’s roughly 15 little bananasss) for the funeral home for thinking up this idea, and for everyone who ever said, “Wow, great idea!”, or for anyone who drove their car through to say “peace out”.  Whoever takes care of my funeral — if you make it a drive-through, I’ll kill ya.