Let's Plan Barbra Streisand's Funeral

I know OP is you, Rozzie....

I'm an instrumental version of "Don't Rain on My Parade" played at an appropriately somber pace by a brass band - during the funeral procession, of course.

I'm the army of cloned Maltipoos pulling her hearse carriage with her casket on it through the estate.

I'm Leah Michelle, all decked out in black. And James Brolin said I could sing at the funeral!

I'm Céline Marie Claudette Dion singing the Way We Were from my wheelchair.

I'm Roslyn Kind, grinning evilly in the cemetery when no one is watching, like Damien at the end of "The Omen."

I'm the off white casket.

I’m free.

Woooo oooo oooo ooo ooo ooo

I’m the microphone at the pulpit, painted white.

I’m the left side of the casket facing outwards. Its good side.

She should have the good sense to have died when there were people around who cared.

I’m Mandy Patinkin singing “Barbra, Can You Hear Me?”

The Mall Workers will celebrate...

I’m the millennials who don’t give a shit about her or her stale music

I'm Lorna Luft condoling Roz.

I'm Lainie Kazan asking the caterer where the chocolate fountain is

I’m Linda Richman bawling in the front row. I’m so verklempt!

I'm the off white mausoleum in the shape of a piano.

I’m the $10,000 ticket price to gain entry. Not even Jason or James gets in for free.

I'm the shop bottom at the cash register at the exit from Barbra's basement Malibu mall. I sit, ringing up few sales, checking my phone... not many fans have shown up to wander and shop (why are they charging to park on the estate?), fewer are buying anything. Anything! I told Mr. Brolin everything should be prced 50% off, but n-o-o-o, Jason said he would not discount his mother, she had impecable taste, blah, blah, blah, that her millions of fans would want a piece of his mother, no matter the price.

Bitch please, take this crap to QVC and let David Venable sell it off in one weekend. That queen and Alberti can sell snow to Eskimos! And Jason, you could join them in the studio, maybe sing a tune or two Homage to Mother and try to unload your own unsold CDs.

I'm Jason flirting with the hot cops directing traffic.

I'm Jon Peters hitting on Diane Lane.

Funeral? You realize she had her dead dog cloned right?

I’m Oprah and I’m not leaving without my microphone.

I'm James Brolin, auctioning everything off at Sotheby's and Christie's, while I move in a 35 year old struggling actress.

I’m Liza being wheeled in by Michael Feinstein

I’m Lainie Kazan, standing near the back, in a bright orange pantsuit

I'm Jimmy Fallon crying.

I’m the lights being dimmed on Broadway

I'm Sofia Vergara, in a low-cut red silk gown, just throwing myself at silver granddaddy James Brolin.

I'm the unsold copy of "My Name is Barbra" placed on every chair. The inscription reads, "This harrowing memoir was ripped from my soul, and the decade I spent writing it is probably what killed me! The least you can do is read it, bitches!!"

I'm the code phrase "the nose is stuffed" sent out as a SMS message to her friends, family, staff, and planners. It lets them know she has died and they mus send out their social media posts, return home, and take fulfill their difficult roles in the upcoming ceremonies. Karen Grassle is no longer expected to participate. She knows why.

I'm her36 hour long last will and testament video.

With songs....

I’m the relentless soft focus and even more relentless vamping to show off a manicure in said video will.

I'm Kim Carnes valiantly making it to my spot in the 2nd rowing using two canes. Please don't rush me.

I’m Elliot Gould’s carer frantically looking for a place to change his diaper.

I'm the jumbo shrimp to dip in cocktail sauce from Chasen's that's been in the freezer for 30 years; asparagus spears in hollandaise; and Petit Fours to be served at my reception.

I'm the paper plates from the Dollah Store that's in the mall.

I’m Donna Karan, delivering the eulogy

I’m Chris Evans. I never actually met her, but I’ve been paid my full asking price to deliver a eulogy about how maddeningly complicated and physically irresistible she is.

I’m the Gen Z usher who faints at the sight of Bette Midler, thinking it’s Barbra — at her own funeral.

I won’t bring flowers!

I'm your host, Ryan Seacrest.

I'm Tracy Chapman performing an acoustic version of People.

I’m the rider stipulating that even though we don’t do open casket, the sanctuary of Temple Israel have its furniture flipped and the ark moved to the other side of the hall in honor of her good side.

I’m the chair of the DNC wondering when we can get this show and the road and get to the video will.

I’m Bill sans Hillary

I've sent my regrets, but I've got nothing to be guilty of.

I'm Tatum O'Neal, and I can't remember if I'm supposed to be here or not. Were they married, or...???

I'm King Charles III, so exhausted from grieving in Malibu that I have to cancel the side trip to Montecito and return immediately to London.

I'm Carly Simon. Where the fuck am I?

Medulla Oblongata

Oops, wrong thread

I’m Andre Agassi

I'm Don Johnson in pastels.

I'm not going.

I'm the audio system playing 'He Touched Me' to explain Barbra's passing.

I'm Don Johnson wondering if I'm going to stroke out while being a pall bearer.

Make no mistake, that seat is mine.

I'm the spelling error of Barbara on the mausoleum.

I’m Patti LuPone laughing at inappropriate moments during the eulogy.

I'm the yellow paint, all ready for painting the White House.

I’m the heightened coffin lid to accomodate the schnoz.

I’m the mention of Barbra now reuniting with her father.

I’m the monochromatic frames as a background for the truth of the moment.

I'm a clear day.

I’m the ghost of Robert Redford.

R14. Aren't Rozzie, Jason, and James the only mall employees?

I’m the box of dildos Rosa the maid disposes of in a quiet and dignified manner before her family gets back.

I'm Jason wondering what the hell I'm going to do with all her accumulated crap.

I’m Liza Minnelli cackling away because even though I had many more health problems, I’m still here surviving Babs!

I’m Brad Pitt. Substitute pall bearer in light of Robert Redford’s sudden unavailability.

The country will have to shut down.

I'm the all out search for James Brolin , he bounced right after the funeral and has not been seen since.

I’m the shiva chairs upholstered in dusty rose mohair.

I’m Jason’s moving rendition of “Mama, Can You Hear Me?”

From the way, way, way back machine (1998) is this article from The Onion. I laughed so hard... it's still very funny.

Written soon after Princess Diana's death, here's the opening paragraph: "With sales of Princess Di memorabilia falling off sharply after a record 1997, collectible-plate-industry leaders Monday called for the tragic death of beloved entertainer Barbra Streisand."

Read on...

Jason Gould will probably find ways to keep Josh Brolin's daughter out of the funeral because Babs considers the child to be her granddaughter.

I'm Sarah Michelle Gellar, tweeting #ripbarbarawalters

BLASPHEMY! May you all say Hail Marys until Barbra directs another movie!