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I’m The Pharaoh of This House and Therefore Must Be Buried in My Man-Cave



I was on the internet the other day and came across a pretty cool factoid: In olden times, Egyptian Pharaohs would shove their crypts full of all the dope materials from their reign. In their tomb, for example, they’d place scepters, gold, jewels, and other materials indicating their power and majesty.

Um, I thought, that’s freaking dope as hell.

I’m basically the Pharaoh of my freaking house (You know, I hold it down). Plus, I already have all the coolest shit from my life in one place: my man-cave. It’s in my garage and out there on many a Sunday, I’ve often thought about drifting off and dying.

So, this internet search basically led me right to one of the biggest decisions of my life: when I die, I want my crypt to be a totally kick-ass man cave full of all my cool stuff and where NO GIRLS ARE ALLOWED.

Why was I looking up funeral stuff? About a week ago, my wife and I bought side-by-side grave plots. We held each other in a windy downpour in the graveyard. I looked down at my eternal resting place. It was near a highway. I could hear the cars buzzing past. And I imagined deteriorating. The image, that one constantly reoccurring in my dreams of the skeleton of my neighbor’s dog I found on the train tracks, appeared again.

Honestly, I came back home completely bummed.

I didn’t want to spend eternity sad or anything. I tried to think about what makes me happy: Saturdays. Specifically, Saturdays with the boys! Our current grave plot plan didn’t have anything like that. I’d just spent all of the afterlife rotting beside my wife and a highway. No Saturdays with the boys! None at all!

So I said to the wife last night, “Babe, please cancel our side-by-side graves.”

She looked sad and asked me why. I tried to think of how to tell her about being sad for eternity. It was too hard to explain. I just wanted to have a different life. So I told her, “Because I’m the Pharaoh of this house! I want to live in a man cave when I die!”

My wife sighed.

“And also,” I yelled at my wife, “SATURDAYS ARE FOR THE BOYS! EVEN IN DEATH!”

I turned over and went to bed.

I guess it’s not just the grave thing that got me thinking about this, it’s also my catchphrase. Often times, I tell my family, “Hey, I’m the Pharaoh of this house!”

I say this when they’ve taken the remote and I’d like to continue watching the pre-game football show, or when the kids complain about doing yard work, or when my wife wants to use the credit card to buy groceries. I want them to know I’m in charge. Like a Pharaoh.

They usually respond, “Okay, okay!”

I yell again, “I’m Pharaoh of this house!”

And they’re like,“Ha-ha Dad.”

I scream, “I AM THE PHARAOH OF THIS HOUSE!”

My recliner is my throne, of course. My other throne is the toilet. Both of those, for sure, must be put in my man-cave tomb. I’d like a glowing sign that says “BEER!” too. Plus, some actual beer. I like the classier stuff, since I’m a gentry and all. Like Yuengling.

What else? Plasma TVs, sick posters of my favorite teams, maybe even a foosball table. I decided I for sure want Barstool Sports paraphernalia in my tomb.

In this tomb, I think it’s important that it’s not just any freaking man cave. It must impart the regal air of a Pharaoh—wall paintings adorned the resting place of my boy Pharaoh Tutankhamun telling the stories about life and the passage of time. So, no trashy posters of butts on my walls. Only refined posters of, like, boobs.

It’ll be hard to keep up these airs—I’m a common man in some ways. My family has never had gold or jewels or amulets. But, I do have some bonds my grandfather gave me. I will never sell them. They’re a long-term investment. Lay these beside my body. Freaking put my health insurance policy down there too—cost enough! Haha! There’ll be lots of joking around in my man cave/crypt.

Supposedly, the journey to the after-life is long. And so, I’ll need my grill and some prime-ass steaks for the long ride. I’ll need a vent in the top of this sucker to let the grill smoke out, I don’t want to be cremated here.

And the big-ass TV has to have NFL RedZone.

Last up, Pharaohs often believed they needed to be buried with vessels—especially boats—to cross over into the afterlife. The idea was that it was a sun vessel to glide across the heavens with Ra, the Sun God. Makes sense. But you don’t have to build me a sun vessel or anything. Just give me my pontoon boat that’s out at the lake. Load that sucker up with a tube. You bet your ass me and the boys will make that pontoon boat into a moving man cave gliding across the celestial plane, watching Ra try to stay on the tube as I push the boat faster and faster, cutting across my own wake until Ra totally gets dunked into the water.

To my family: I love you. Thanks for reading my last will and testament. I give you nothing. Liquidate all assets to make this crypt man-cave a reality.


Join upcoming online comedy classes like “Writing Satire for the Internet” at The Second City – 10% off with code PIC.



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