My Funeral, If Famous

If I’m ever a famous statesman, I’m going to leave specific instructions that when I die, and the nation’s elite gather for my funeral service at the National Cathedral, the officiants will commend my teeth to the Tooth Fairy, telling the crowd that they are in a better place, finally free of the burden of cavity-causing sugar products and the scourge of gum disease, joined in bliss with my long-long baby teeth and looking down lovingly on us, occasionally providing brushing and flossing guidance to those who faithfully beseech them in times of need. Dressed in sober but inspiring robes emblazoned with an image of a smiling tooth, the officiants will then lead the congregation in a long, impassioned call-and-response exhortation to the almighty Tooth Fairy, humbly acknowledging her almighty reign, with a short but sad lamentation on the destruction caused by her enemy unchecked gingivitis, and end with an inspiring hymn to the efficacy of orthodonture and various tooth whitening products.

Then again, this is one of the many reasons why I’ll never be a famous statesman.