Saralee Perel

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, can be reached at sperel@saraleeperel.com 


Her novel, Raw Nerves, is now available as a paperback and an e-book on Amazon.com.



The Last Laugh is On Me


My husband and I were walking through a cemetery when he shook his head and said, "Epitaphs are so serious."

"Right, Bob. Strange, isn't it?" I walked ahead of him, knowing full well where this talk was going.

He caught up with me. "Want to hear what I want on mine?"

"No."

Apparently he thought I said, "YES! TELL ME!" He went on, "I'd rather be at Burger King, but then again, that's why I'm here in the first place."

That night I couldn't sleep. I get goofy when I don't sleep. I was thinking that people never get to hear their own eulogies. So I wrote mine.

When I woke Bob to tell him, I said, "Everyone at my funeral will hear the truth instead of some fairy tale about what an incredibly amazing person I was."

"Let's hear it."

Fifty-five-time Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, Saralee Perel, will be missed by everyone in the universe ... and elsewhere.

Bob interrupted, "I guess you haven't been sleeping."

I continued:

Known as the Mother Teresa of the 21st century, Saralee gave millions of dollars to the neediest. Insisting on anonymity, she disguised herself as Oprah.


Saralee is the only psychiatrist who could rehabilitate Charlie Sheen. At his first session, he swaggered into her office and chain-smoked cigarettes. Instead of answering her questions, he'd respond by singing Rihanna's lyrics: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me." By his last session, he had quit smoking (anything). While he was talking to Dr. Perel, he was knitting pink booties for his poodle. He left her office singing, "I'm a little teapot."

By the age of 7, Saralee received a Lifetime Achievement Award for her outstanding contribution to world literature for her New York Times best-selling book, "My Autobiography: A Profile in Courage."

"Bob," I said, snapping my fingers to stop his face from being stuck in that stunned expression. "Now I'll read my newspaper obituary. I want people to know the real me, not some lofty made-up stuff about how benevolent I am."

Saralee died from asphyxiation while screaming her head off about how benevolent she is, at which point friends and family surrounding her put a pillow over her head.

She is not survived by anybody worth mentioning.

According to her wishes, Saralee was buried with the Oscar she won for writing and starring in the remake of "Titanic." She brilliantly changed the ending so that instead of the ship sinking, the passengers were rescued by the pirate Johnny Depp, after which they all partied on the deck eating Chinese takeout.

She was also buried with her Olympic gold medal for the coveted honor of winning first place in the category "Rock, paper, scissors."

Saralee was most proud of being nominated and accepted by the prestigious society, The Who's Who of Owls.

An informal Mass and barbecue will be held in the Vatican's Sistine Chapel. BYOB. In lieu of donating money to charitable foundations, send exorbitant, gigantic useless flower arrangements.

"Bob?" I called out. "Can you hear all this from the kitchen?"

"No. That's why I'm here."

So I yelled louder, "All I have to do now is the epitaph for my tombstone."

He slowly came into the room. "I'll write it," he said solemnly.

He wrote:

Get my drift, I ask of thee.
Here "lies" Saralee.
We knew when we heard her eulogy,
she'll be lying throughout eternity.