Everybody dies. Most people have funerals. Funerals are sad occasions but they are also hilarious.
You can never predict at what point the funny will begin. No one funeral is like the other but there are always the usual suspects. The important thing to remember is to have a plan: a way you can conceal your laughter or get you out of the room completely. A tissue or handkerchief is a must but having a small, poorly behaved child with you is the best funeral-breakout accessory. A bratty little fucker will guarantee you carte blanche to exit and re-enter at times of your own choosing. No matter what your particular coping strategy may be, you must always be on the look out for the following characters...
Perhaps the minister is 4 feet tall. Maybe he is also 3 feet wide and has hair loss. Possibly he has made the choice to wear a thick, curly toupee. Sadly he outgrew and out-grayed the toupee 20 years ago and it looks like he's wearing a newborn infant's winter hat. On top of all of that he's super, super gay. From that day forward the only thing that will be remembered about this funeral is that gay fat dwarf with the horrible toupee and how fucking difficult it was not to laugh out loud. "Luckily, I had a tissue to cover my face," will be a familiar opening sentence when people talk about this funeral. "When he dropped the incense and had to bend over to pick it up and lost his balance and everyone gasped because it looked like he was going to fall over but then he caught himself, Jesus Christ! I just pretended to be overcome with grief. Now I always bring a tissue, because you never know."
He seems a bit swishy.
Where there are dead bodies or urns of ashes, there will usually be music. Sometimes the folks choosing the musical selections are
c) drunk and retarded
But it isn't enough that the corpse is wheeled in to "Send In The Clowns" and then serenaded with "Sweet Georgia Brown" before being wheeled out to "The Party's Over". No. Not nearly enough. What really brings you to the Chuckles-The-Clown moment is the fact that all of these songs are sung by a 71 year-old warbling woman who reminds you of your Aunt Gladys accompanying herself on a Hammond organ straight out of your Grandmother's 1960s living room. Grab that little fucking brat and head for the john!
"Isn't it rich?"
Just when you think "Praise God, it's almost over and I still haven't vomited or shat myself" someone other than the minister gets up and offers a few words about the deceased. Cringe Alert Level: Code Red.
Sometimes this individual is an alcohol enthusiast who publicly (and brazenly within an actual church) describes our lost mother/sister/aunt/friend as a "fucking kick-ass broad who knew how to fucking party!" at which point the idiot turns to the fat gay dwarf with the ridiculous toupee and says "Sorry man, but that's how she rolled." Suddenly, staring at the floor becomes fascinating and lifesaving.
"Hot damn, that bitch knew how to suck a dick! Sorry, Father."