I may not look great now, but just wait until I die!

It was bound to happen; inevitable, really. In our appearance-obsessed culture, where it really is considered better to “look good than feel good,” how could it not?

I’m talking about – brace yourself – plastic surgery for the dead. Yup. You read that right.

I suppose in some ways this is just a natural extension of the mortician’s art. For years, undertakers have done their best to make old Aunt Hattie look “lifelike” for the wake. Makeup, hairdos and toxic chemicals have all been employed to give the dearly departed a healthy glow he or she probably never had in life.

We’ve come a long way from the days of putting a couple pennies over the eyes and calling it good. Today’s funerals are a multi-million dollar business. Not since the ancient Egyptians has a culture been so obsessed with putting a pretty face on that final ferry ride with Charon down the river Styx. (Which is actually a Greek reference, not Egyptian, I know. Just roll with me here, professor.)

Anyway, while we haven’t yet revived mummification, we are following a similar, though more modern route to the same end; namely, trying to look our best while moving from this world to the next.

Two of the services being offered by post-mortem plastic surgeons are lip plumping and breast augmentation. I know, I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

Plain Janes who somehow managed to get through decades of life looking the way God and nature intended can now enter the afterlife with Calista Flockhart lips and Dolly Parton ta-tas.

And it’s not just for the ladies. Guys, too, are opting for afterlife wrinkle reduction surgery, hair coloring and pec implants.

With regard to those implants it’s important to note – if you’re planning on cremation – they have a tendency to explode when heated. You may want to arrange to have them removed first, unless of course you want to go out with a bang.

Naturally, all this stuff costs a whole lot more than a couple pennies on the eyes, but just think how jealous all those wrinkly, thin-lipped, small-ta-ta’ed living people left behind will be!

OK, does anyone besides me think this is nuts?

When I kick the bucket, I don’t care if the Lovely Mrs. Taylor stacks me in a corner, puts a rubber cigar in my mouth, a pinwheel beanie on my head and lets the cats use me as a jungle gym. (There’s actually a chance she will do just that.)

I won’t care. For once, it won’t matter how I look. In fact, I’m rewriting my will this afternoon. I’m leaving specific instructions for the undertaker to leave my shirt untucked, my hair uncombed, and my face unshaven.

I want to spend eternity in comfort. I’m hoping Heaven has no dress code. And if Heaven’s not to be my final destination, well, how I look will be the least of my worries.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.