Seriously. This is Nothing Like Your Mama's Obit.

Did you know that reading a traditional obituary may be the leading cause of After Death mourning? Let's face it. Nobody wants to read one, much less write one. Well, unless the New York Times decides people need to remember you. Then you get a professional who pens these columns for a morbid living, and also some serious dead tree space.

Spoiler Alert: an unprofessional word-slayer with access to a keyboard wrote this Hot Mess Walkin'.
#💀WouldKillForAProWriter

Since most family trees are impressively dysfunctional, Most of Us didn't inherit the overdose of talent needed to qualify for anything more than a ho-hum memorial page.
#DeathSucksAndSoDoesTheAfterPart

This meh tribute typically displays a melancholy candle, a bleak guest book for depressed guests getting more despondent by the minute, and an urgent prompt for its signers to subscribe!--or risk missing an update about the deceased. Well, now, that is rather startling. Here we were thinking The Big News was that the person is you know, dead. That seemed like a pretty major announcement. What exactly do you follow that alert with? It's like announcing the Stones as the opening band, then dragging out the headliner who's cowering backstage.
#YouCantAlwaysGetTheObituaryYouWant

Here's a sorrier fact: in order to get a NY Times hard pass + sad candle, someone literally has to die. Yup. Sayonara time.

Look, we have nothing against regular, respectful, benign traditions. But we also have no beef or beyond meat with being unable to compose ourselves if the deceased's having a very bad hair reveal at the viewing. Inappropriate laughter may earn us withering looks, but it also wakes up endorphins, and on Death Day, we're running pretty freaking low on dopamine fumes.

So, go ahead; laugh your devastated unbalanced booty off. Your dearly departed doesn't mind, and if he does, what exactly is he going to do about it? Just sayin'. Unless there's a Stimulus Package with a Resurrection Rider in it, your dead human is not likely to sit up and straighten his locks. And, if he does, you need a word with the "coroner."

Frankly, if the Asshat Grim Reaper stole your person, any ill-timed outburst should get one big Greek motherfu@3in' pass.

The only thing we're sure of is that following the cataclysmic event of losing someone you love, you will not be well. So feel free to conduct yourself as inappropriately as possible. It's the only time you'll get a free pass on this, so have that meltdown at Target, burst into PDA's (Public Displays of Anguish) whenever the mood strikes, show your ass at the Zoom virtual Friday cocktail gig. No, not literally, as you're three nuts shy of a squirrel and not hire-able at the moment. Keeping your job is important, so this is more like erupting into a flood of tears and wailing without warning. Or silencing your co-workers with a backdrop of a coffin.

Making people uncomfortable without having to apologize is the only perk in the After Death package you are automatically enrolled in. If someone gives you a shrink's contact info., keep it, because trust us, you are not right, not even close. And like death itself, your Get Out of Saying Sorry nutjob card has no expiration date.
#TheMoreAwkwardTheBetter #BreakYourCrayons #HaveAMooCowFit

After the Big D, anything goes. Whatever rubs your melancholy Buddha and all that.

When we lost our own cool human, we also lost our minds, which wasn't surprising as we were perched on the Nuthouse Edge way before he passed.
#DefectiveRegularFamilyRoots #NoSoupOrNYTimesForUs

But losing him gave us a hard push over that mental wellness cliff. And in our cocoa bananas state of mind, we discovered another big fat Greek problem. Our cool human, Dennis James Lord II was such a live wire that we found ourselves with one super sweet cuke in a very dilled jar of serious pickles. #DennisWasTickTockWayBeforeTikTok

It just felt wrong to stereotype him with a lethargic mason jar label like "dead cuke." So, what on earth to do?? Since our Den was more a death-friendly euphemism like existing in a different but always lively state of pickled being, we opted out of the regular obit party line, a combo order of a miserable page + sad candle + disturbing updates.
#NoFriesWithThisObitOrder

Instead, we opted for this mourning-ever-after crazed thingamagig.

And as you, Dear Beleaguered Reader, are now discovering, when we unpacked Not Your Mama's Obit, it did not come with any directions on how to construct an alternative tribute. So this weird honorary website is the result of not just our impulsive decision to wing it, but also to you know, fake it till you make it. Big time.
#FakingItDoesNotAlwaysMakeIt

Warning: Hot mess walkin'.

Reading Rated: CNA21+ Clearly Not Adulting 21 & Up
IARO: Immature Adult Readers Only
Contains death and dead people, ticked off living people, the F word and other letters combined to form bad words, overuse of hashtags, OTT bragging, startled celebrity quotes yanked out of context, generally unwilling participants, gallows humor + alcohol + cannabis for medicinal mourning purposes only, resentful readers, bad poetry, and a few martyred mice used for parts of this reading experiment.

Head's Up for Serious Mourners On Smile-Free Eating Plans: Do not read if you remembered to conceal your bitch resting face weapon behind a mask, a.k.a. the Altoids-on-steroids self-preservation zone, but forgot to pick up a pound of plant-based grass-fed humor at Wegmans.

Do not read if you treat catastrophic events as solemn as death (or anything that’s no-laughing-matter) with too much respect. Scroll to the top and safely exit the site.
#GetOutWhileYouCan

More Warnings are in a font so small you need a magnifying glass but don't BYOG/Bring Your Own Glass to this reading event, unless it's a shot glass.
#SpoilerAlert

Sobriety is not recommended, may not be safe, and can result in bodily and mental health injury.

Read only while drunk wasted, trashed, or reasonably high; if you speak in a fake or real British accent, read when pissed. Do not read if you have too much class or just the regular amount, are predisposed to migraines, suffer from high blood pressure, impatience, bad temper, fear of phrases uttered in slang, are allergic to curse words, or have been diagnosed with short fuse syndrome.

Read only if you are irresponsible, illogical, easily confused, can see dead people, need only 1 Adult in the room supervising you, have delusions of comic-book grandeur, believe in cartoon heroes, are an insomniac with an instagram boredache at 3am, are a celebrity jonesing for attention since the pandemic interrupted your Oscar winning performance of pretending to dodge the paparazzi, or if you have access to any of Kim’s passwords.

The surgeon general prohibits all of our harmful warnings, which is not surprising since this same high-ranking doctor writes cigarette labels that can kill you. Since we're unqualified to write anything more challenging than a facebook comment, we've proven it beyond a reasonable doubt, with this cheeky, irreverent, nonsensical, and meandering tribute. #CheekyIsBritishForSaucy

If we've already ASMR’d/snore-fested you to sleep, or you’ve missed the point of what this is, think of it as a hopeless attempt by incompetent amateurs to answer one final Sleeping With The Fishes Jeopardy category question:

What made Dennis James Lord II tick (tock)?

In case you missed the clues hopeless, incompetent, and amateur, Lieutenant Sarcasm/Aunty Marcia is here to clarify: we suck at answering this question, not just because we're unfit for even the dumbed down version of Jeopardy but also because we get brain cramps trying to form interrogative sentences. For example: Question: What made Dennis tick? Answer(s): Where is Jimmy Hoffa? Who killed JFK? What is dark matter? are all acceptable Jeopardy strange-speak answers.

Proceed at your own risk, and don't take any precautions as none can prevent the side effects listed ad nauseam (including nausea) in any ad for western medication. And, in case you are wondering, no surrogate exists who will endure the protracted labor pains of reading Not Your Mama's Obit for you. (We know because we asked all of them after unsuccessfully trying to read it ourselves.)