A Token of my Grief
I’m all up for stoicism. Moaning little self-involved bitches make me feel ill. My granddad fought in a tank in a desert and saw his matey get eviscerated, then spent six months in a prisoner of war camp, and he wasn’t a little moaning bitch about it. Still though, once being stoic turns into a t-shirt that says, “My husband went to death via cancer, and all I got was this shitty shirt”, you’ve officially gone too far and strayed into psychosis. You’ve also strayed into this company’s target audience.
Why waste valuable imagination on remembering what your dead relative looked like when you can have their plastic bust filled with their ashes sitting beneath their labotomised scalp?
These people just don’t see the point in bland sentimentalisation. Death is merely another area for you to express your kooky character – just like flashmobs or iPhone apps. And if you can’t afford a full-sized urn, get the “Keepsake” model and sit it next to the Pez dispenser you picked up at Legoland.