Have you ever found yourself chuckling while reading an obituary? If not, you’re in for a treat. Death doesn’t always have to be depressing.
In this article, I wanted to see if ChatGPT could help take the sting out of writing obituaries. A craft that, contrary to popular belief, can be brimming with life, laughter, and a touch of irreverence.
I began by downloading the basic requirements for writing a compelling obituary. Then, I sat down and roughed out a ChatGPT script of my own design, taking care to include all of the most important elements.
Next, I logged into ChatGPT, plugged in my script, and asked it to help me write a skillful blend of humor and homage that characterizes the best obituaries. Far from being mere gloomy farewells, these obituaries celebrate the quirks and idiosyncrasies that make each life extraordinary. They remind us that even in the midst of mourning, there’s room for a smile, a light-hearted anecdote, or a witty reflection.
Join me as we explore how the art of obituary writing using ChatGPT can turn a loved one’s final curtain call into a stage for humor and humanity, proving that even in death, the stories of our lives can bring joy, laughter, and a bit of unexpected delight.
The Obituary of Donald J. “The Art of the Deal” Trump, 75
It is with a heavy heart and a barely contained smirk that we announce the passing of Donald J. “The Art of the Deal” Trump, who left us at the ripe age of 75. Donald was engaged in his favorite activity, tweeting, at his gold-plated desk in Trump Tower, surrounded by an array of fast-food wrappers, on the 23rd of April, 2024, at precisely 3:17 PM GMT. His demise, caused by a rare affliction known as “Chronic Ego Inflammitis,” was a tragic yet almost poetic end to his larger-than-life existence. His battle with this peculiar disease reached a turning point when he received a hair follicle transplant from a 14-year-old boy in a remote village in Namibia, a procedure that, while medically questionable, seemed to rejuvenate his spirits if not his scalp.
Born in the backseat of a Cadillac on June 14, 1946, Donald’s life was nothing short of a rollercoaster of tabloid headlines and late-night show punchlines. His arrests, always for the most flamboyant of reasons – including but not limited to, attempting to trademark the word “The,” “Best,” and even “Donald” – were as frequent as his Twitter tirades. His marriages, much like his business ventures, were a series of spectacular fireworks, each ending with more noise than the last. His career, punctuated by six bankruptcies and a parade of reality TV shows, was a testament to his unflinching dedication to the art of making and breaking deals.
Donald leaves behind a legacy as complex as his hairdo. Survived by his three wives, five children, a brood of grandchildren, and a bewildering number of undisclosed relations, bookies, and siblings, his family tableau is as colorful as his personal life. His eldest son, Donald Jr., has already expressed plans to convert Trump Tower into a museum dedicated to his father’s tweets.
In life, Donald was known for his unique qualities, such as his ability to change his spray-on skin tones faster than a chameleon, and his secret physical anomaly – two left feet, which explained a lot about his spectacular tumbles down the stairs of Air Force One. His accomplishments, though minuscule in the grand scheme of things, were monumental in his own mind. His collection of self-authored books, which no one else read, will be remembered by him and him alone.
The funeral service will be held at the crack of dawn on the 30th of April, in the remote, yet opulent, gardens of Mar-a-Lago. True to Donald’s style, it’s a private affair, but attendees are encouraged to bring a date, or better yet, a reality TV star.
In conclusion, as someone once said about something somewhere, “It is what it is.” Donald J. Trump’s departure leaves a void in the world of entertainment, Twitter, and late-night comedy that will be hard to fill. In his memory, please feel free to share all his passwords and the combination to his safe deposit boxes; it’s what he would have wanted.
Rest in peace, Donald. Or, as you might tweet from the great beyond, “Sad!”
The Obituary of Rudy “The Rascal” Giuliani, 76
Rudy “The Rascal” Giuliani, aged 76, met his eccentric end on March 15, 2024, at precisely 11:47 PM GMT. He was found in a Tanzanian treehouse, passionately debating with a group of bewildered meerkats. The cause of death? A dramatic heart failure, no doubt accelerated by his lifetime affliction with the rare and curious Sarcasm Overload Syndrome. It’s a condition that bewilders medical students to this day. Rudy’s life took a bizarre turn after receiving a liver transplant from a 14-year-old boy in a remote village of Lesotho. This miraculous procedure gave him a renewed zest for life, albeit a slightly off-kilter one.
Born in the backseat of a dilapidated Ford Pinto on April 28, 1944, Rudy’s life was a rollercoaster of questionably hilarious events. His arrest record was as varied as it was entertaining, ranging from jaywalking in a clown costume to arguing with statues in Central Park. His personal life? Let’s just say, if failed marriages were a sport, Rudy would have been an Olympian. His four bankruptcies were less about financial ruin and more about a peculiar hobby, much like his career, which was a collection of minor, yet somehow hilarious, achievements.
Survived by an assortment of characters including three ex-wives, six children, a dozen grandchildren, his surprisingly patient parents, two bookies named Vinnie, and a parrot that only knows legal jargon, Rudy’s life was nothing if not a colorful tapestry. Sadly, his illicit relationship with a fortune teller named Madame Zara and his bond with his half-brother, who doubled as his personal psychic, was cut short.
Rudy’s quirks were the stuff of legend. A man with a third nipple he named “Larry”, and a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a hyena, he was a walking, talking, paradox. His greatest accomplishment? Finishing a marathon in a penguin suit, a feat that no one, including Rudy, really cared about. His values were as enigmatic as his choice of pets (three-legged raccoons, anyone?), and his departure surely makes the world a curious place without him.
The service will be held at the ungodly hour of 4:30 AM on March 25th, in a secluded yurt in Mongolia. True to Rudy’s flair for the dramatic, the service is private, but guests are encouraged to bring a date, preferably someone as bewildering as Rudy himself.
In conclusion, someone once said about Rudy, “He was a man of many words, most of them unnecessary.” His safe deposit box combination (18-24-36) and passwords (surprisingly all “password123”) are now public domain, much like his infamous legacy. Rudy, you will be missed, but mostly, you will be remembered for being unabashedly, unapologetically, Rudy “The Rascal” Giuliani.
The Obituary of Roger “Rocky Road” Stone, 69
Roger “Rocky Road” Stone, aged 69, met his untimely demise on January 14, 2024, at precisely 03:30 GMT. At the time, he was found slumped over a game of Monopoly, ironically bankrupt in the game as in life, surrounded by his equally competitive and financially embattled friends. The cause? A rare condition known as Lilliputian Halitosis, compounded by the stress of rolling double sixes. Stone’s medical history is a marvel – after years of battling this peculiar affliction, he received a life-altering rectum transplant from a 14-year-old boy in a remote village of Namibia, a twist of fate that seemed almost as bizarre as his life.
Born in the trunk of a 1955 Chevrolet on April 1st, Roger’s entrance into the world set the tone for a life filled with unexpected turns. His rap sheet, more colorful than his career, includes memorable arrests ranging from impersonating a bingo caller to illegal hedgehog racing. With four failed marriages, each more dramatic than the last, and an impressive collection of bankruptcies, Roger’s life was a testament to persistence in the face of continual defeat.
Survived by his ex-wives, his disillusioned children, a couple of estranged siblings, and a network of bookies and shady associates, Roger’s passing leaves a void in their lives. Not to mention his cherished parrot, Polly, who knew more about his illicit dealings than any living soul.
Roger’s life was marked by an intriguing blend of the mundane and the bizarre. A man of unique tastes, he boasted an extensive collection of antique toothbrushes and held the unofficial record for the longest time spent listening to elevator music. His most significant achievement, according to him, was his ability to recite the entire menu of an In-N-Out Burger backward – a skill that, unsurprisingly, impressed few.
The world is indeed a different place without Roger “Rocky Road” Stone. His dark, yet oddly mundane legacy, and his knack for finding trouble under unique conditions, leave us wondering what bizarre event he would have inadvertently caused next.
The funeral services, set for the chilly morning of January 22nd at the remote Howling Hills Cemetery, are private. True to Roger’s unconventional style, attendees are encouraged to bring a date – after all, Roger loved a crowd, even if most were there just to take selfies.
Concluding with a remark as peculiar as his life, a friend once said about Roger, “He was the only man who could trip over a wireless phone.” His passwords, safe combinations, and the location of his hidden antique toothbrush collection remain a mystery, much like the man himself. In death, as in life, Roger Stone leaves us amused, slightly offended, and thoroughly perplexed.
The Obituary of Sydney “The Sly Vixen” Powell, 73
Sydney Powell, affectionately known as “The Sly Vixen” by those who endured her unique brand of chaos, left this world at the age of 73. On March 3, 2024, at precisely 16:07 GMT, Sydney was discovered in a compromising position, draped over a giant rubber duck float in the middle of a luxurious spa, in the company of an equally confused troupe of synchronized swimmers. Her demise, medically pinpointed as “Catastrophic Sartorial Malfunction of the Heart,” was as dramatic as her life. The heart, bolstered by a pancreas transplant from a spirited 14-year-old boy in the remote hills of Kipushi, Congo, ultimately succumbed. This transplant had not only given her life but also an inexplicable taste for Congolese folk music and an uncanny ability to communicate with goats.
Sydney’s entrance into the world was as unconventional as her exit, born on February 29, 1951, in the backseat of a sweltering Ford Pinto. Her life was a series of misadventures and misguided endeavors, including seven arrests ranging from accidentally hijacking a hot air balloon to impersonating a fortune teller. She also endured four failed marriages, each more dramatically disastrous than the last, and a series of business ventures that would generously be described as “ill-advised.”
Survived by a cast of characters as eccentric as herself: ex-husbands (who are still recovering), children (who often had to explain their mother’s public antics to the authorities), bewildered grandchildren, a long-suffering bookie, and siblings who often pretended not to know her in public.
Sydney’s quirks were the stuff of legend. A collector of antique mousetraps (none of which worked), an enthusiast of underwater Hula Hooping, and a purveyor of conspiracy theories involving historical figures and time travel. She had an unexplained aversion to blue food and claimed to have the ability to read the fortunes of people through their choice of breakfast cereal.
The world will surely notice the absence of Sydney’s flamboyant presence, her penchant for starting water balloon fights in the Oval Office, and her uncanny ability to create confusion and laughter in equal measure. Her secret ambition to set a world record for the longest conga line was, sadly, never realized.
A small, bewildering memorial service will take place at dawn (because Sydney insisted “all the best things happen when the world is still asleep”) on April 1, 2024, in an uncharted Pando grove known only to those who have dared to follow Sydney on her midnight escapades. In a fitting tribute to Sydney, guests are encouraged to wear mismatched shoes, in honor of her belief that symmetry was overrated.
Sydney, “The Sly Vixen,” may have departed, but her spirit of unapologetic eccentricity and bewildering charm will linger on, much like the perplexing riddles she loved to leave behind. As someone vaguely important once said about something vaguely relevant, “She danced to the beat of her own drum, even if nobody else could hear the music.”
Farewell, Sydney. Your passwords (a chaotic array of cat names and astrological signs) and the combination to your safe (which only contains a collection of vintage postcards and a broken compass) are now part of your curious legacy.
