When I go, I want to go like the Pope.

By now, unless you live in a hole somewhere without access to the internet, cable, UHF TV, radio, newspapers, smoke signals or a carrier pigeon, you know the Pope died last week.

Yeah, that Pope.

I am a bit of a news junkie, so I have been watching in fascination all week the news of what happens when the Pope dies.

It has been very intriguing. And, after watching all the pomp and circumstance, I have decided that when I go, I want to go like the Pope.

I didn’t know the Pope personally, but I did see him on TV and I went to his house in Italy once. He wasn’t home. And I did follow him on Facebook, so we’re officially friends, right?

So, let this be an addendum to my will.

I hereby, being of sound body and mind (well, not of body) do solemnly swear that when I kick the ole proverbial bucket, I want my funeral to be exactly like the one they gave the Pope.

I know I am not as important as the actual Pope, and I don’t have a bunch of guys wearing red robes and little white beanies following me around, ready to put a pillow down before I sit, but I at least deserve a little ceremony when I go to the Great Beyond.

First, I need my death to be announced by every major news outlet in the world. That means my obituary will have to be translated into the 7,102 languages and dialects currently spoken on planet Earth.

That’ll take a few days, but I’m okay with that. Where am I going to go?

The announcement needs to be glowing and talk about how I changed the world and improved life for all mankind. They can leave out the parts about how I stole gum from the store when I was nine or that time I hit my sister for taking the last cookie.

Popes don’t do that kind of stuff.

Then, they will need to dress me up in my finest robes and put me in a casket without a lid, so all my friends can come by and take one last look at me.

They say about 250,000 people came to see the Pope lie in state. I won’t be able to pull those kind of numbers, but I expect the line to at least snake around the block a couple of times.

Then I need one of those big ole funerals. Attended by all the leaders of the world. And I’m going to need me one of those fellows who walks out in front swinging that smoking pot thing.

I’ve got some fat lighter out by the barn, so that should be pretty easy to do.

There will be thousands attending and I want my pastor to make sure everything is in Latin.

That way, when he gets to that part about me hitting my sister, nobody will understand it and leave.

After it’s over, then there should be nine days of mourning where people wear sackcloth and smear ashes all over themselves.

I don’t know what ‘sackcloth’ is but I’m sure Versace can whip up a nice outfit from it so people can at least be stylish.

My wife will probably want to serve some finger foods at my wake. I would recommend pigs in a blanket. Everybody loves those.

Nine days of mourning seems a little short to me, but whatever. After those nine days, there needs to be a big group of old men who meet to discuss who will replace me.

My wife will probably want to sit in on that.

After the new guy is in place, my burial site will be a thing that draws thousands of admirers every year to come and cry and wail a little more.

And of course, I want my picture to be on something. Maybe some money, a postage stamp or collectible plate. At least a t-shirt.

Something that shows how humble I was.

I know I’m not as famous or as holy as the Pope was. Heck, the last time I confessed my sins was when I was pulled over by the Georgia State Patrol.

And that was only after they tazed me.

So, I know I don’t deserve a Pope funeral.

Can I at least get one of those cool hats?