Nobody Does Funerals Like My Family (Bittersweet Symphony)
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral- the Barenaked Ladies, One Week.
Grandpa died. He was better than you at everything. I went to the funeral home for the visitation. My SJ father asked me why I shaved (I had been growing a beard) which is ironic because he previously used to threaten to ground me for not shaving. I looked through a photo album, noting that my brother would insist on giving the shocker in a photo even when he was an infant. I looked through my grandpa's old report card (expecting high marks since he later became a teacher) only to find that he received a 28% in arithmetic. Even sadder was he was ranked second in the class for math. Despite other lackluster marks, the teacher noted that "[Grandpa] is doing very well indeed." Who knows, maybe there were only two people in that class.
My brother's and I were in standard form, that is, as inappropriate as possible. Ringleader grabbed his girlfriends tit not ten feet from the casket. Grandpa would have wanted it that way.
I talked to many of my Grandpa's friends, many whom I had never met before. I asked one, Ralph, how he had met my Grandpa. He told me that he had been golfing alone and noticed that my Grandpa was golfing alone as well, so they had decided to go together. Ralph scoffed as my Grandpa wound up his shot with only one arm (a stroke had left his other arm nearly useless). Ralph ended up getting his ass kicked. He didn't know that my Grandpa was better than him at everything.
The funeral director approached me and asked me who the hot, tall, blonde chick was. I told him that she was my fifteen year old cousin. The funeral director replied "No, uh I meant that other blonde chick. The short one." The short blonde chick told me that she couldn't believe that she was jealous of a fifteen year old.
Proving that he is classy once and for all, my brother makes fart noises with his hands and discusses how he wants to leave an upper decker in a Dairy Queen bathroom. We reminisce about how our Grandpa used to fart involuntarily and tell his bum to shut up. I laugh so hard that I hurt myself. My Grandpa was better at flatulent comedy than you.
Prior to my Grandpa's death, my Facebook status had read "I'm growing a beard for Manuary to raise awareness for my face." In response to this Ringleader slapped my face a few feet from the casket and informed me that his hand was familiar with my face.
The visitation was over, so we went to my Grandpa's favourite restaurant to honour him (I'll uuse as many fuucking 'u's as I want oumw). We went to the Keg for dinner, oh wait no. My Grandpa was a real man so he liked to go to the truck stop to hang out with real men. My Grandpa is better at being a man than you.
After dinner I drank my depressive (or derpressive) face off, anxious about fucking up the eulogy I was going to give the next day (with the help of my brothers.)
My three brothers and I took turns reading what we were going to say. After each speech we responded as a chorus with "Nicely written, asshole."
My nephew said goodnight to us by telling us that we had herpes on our respective lips. Three year olds are fuckin' perceptive.
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At the funeral the priest informed us that my Grandpa had saved him from going to jail. I think he was serious. He told us that my Grandpa used to read Bible verses at his church. The priest told us that my Grandpa had once been reading a passage and had leaned on the lectern too much and made it topple over along with himself. Apparently unfazed he continued reading the passage while the churchgoers tried to upright him. My Grandpa is better at focusing than you.
It was time to give the eulogy. Two of my brother's struggled but made it through with the support of the remaining two brothers. Ringleader knocked it out of the park. Despite being shy and socially awkward, I too knock it out of the park. I am reminded of the time that 30+ people told me that I am the greatest public speaker they had ever seen.*
The priest talked about the right hand giving us all pleasure. He was talking about Jesus being the right hand of God, but still most of us had a good chuckle.
As a pall bearer I had to lift my Grandpa's casket into a tiny burial plot. The graveyard was way too small and I nearly tripped over a tombstone while attempting to get my Grandpa into his grave.
Afterwards several people came up to me to tell me some variation of "Your Grandpa would be proud" "You spoke so well" "I hope my grandchildren will read as well as you." There were too many of them to be just a coincidence. I, Randall, like my Grandpa, am better than you at everything.
*Excerpt from my part of the eulogy:
I used to think that I had a firm grasp on the English language. That was before I saw my Grandpa talk to some of his fellow Newfies. I remember the joke/riddle he once told me that was clear to his Newfie relatives, but was baffling to me. It was as follows [said as fast as possible]: "Two legs sitting on three legs, with one leg in his lap. Along comes four legs takes one leg from two legs, up jumps two legs, throws three legs at four legs and gets his one leg back again." To the Newfies it was clear that it was a story of a man on a stool, his leg of lamb, and his dog. The confusion brought on by that joke is one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa. Another one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa was actually my final one. My three brothers and I all had the privilege of having our final words to him be "I love you." And you can't ask for a better memory than that.
