Am I Sad Enough? An Inner Monologue From A Funeral

Boy, everyone is pretty bummed out. This tie with the Looney Tunes characters on it seems like a bad idea in hindsight. Yeah, here’s dad walking over; he’s definitely pissed about the tie. I’m sorry, Dad, I honestly didn’t think people were going to be sad at this thing since it was only Aunt May who died.

Focus, focus; don’t open the conversation with your dad with, “What’s up, Doc?” You’re definitely the only one who will think that’s funny and he’ll be pissed that you’re not taking yet another funeral seriously.

I should probably feel bad. I did accidentally-on-purpose pull the plug on Aunt May so that I could have a free outlet to charge my phone and play more Candy Crush. Honestly though, how much does a power strip cost, Aunt May, or are you too cheap to buy that just like you were too cheap to buy me Transformers and instead bought me Gobots for my sixth birthday? Yes, Aunt May, there is a very, very noticeable difference!

Do I make small talk at this funeral, or would my family be upset that I’m not spending the entire time thinking about Aunt May, reading scripture, and denouncing evolution? All I want to do is just talk about my theories about what’s going to happen on the next season of Dance Moms; my relatives don’t have to had watched it, I just want them to listen to me while I ramble on and maybe snap a funeral selfie or two. I know, I know, it’s very Aunt May of me to ramble on about something no one else cares about; but come on, relatives; just give the show a chance. Forget that attention whore, Aunt May, for just one day.

Fine, I’ll feign sadness; can’t come on too strong or everyone will notice it for sure. Channel the hurt from all those times you missed McDonald’s breakfast by a few minutes—you were sad, but not overly sad. That’s the magic we need now. Don’t over-do it; don’t try to conjure the debilitating woe you experienced during Hurricane Katrina when they cancelled a Gilligan’s Island marathon in lieu of coverage about New Orleans. That was far too sad to draw on for this occasion and it’s going to seem contrived if you try for it. Don’t try to reminisce on the emotions you felt for all those poor, innocent people; they were just trapped and stuck with nothing but the raging water surrounding them and a dark fear began to build within you as you slowly realized their situation was beyond anyone’s help and past tragic—especially since their only hopes of getting off that island were riding on that idiot Gilligan!

A few uncomfortably long hugs and a sweaty handshake or two later and the service starts. I try to hold it in, but a ghost of a former poo escapes the flesh-mausoleum that is my b-hole. Fortunately, it’s quite pungent, a tear-jerker even. Nearby relatives inquire if I’m cutting a rotting onion, but I tell them what I think they want to hear: that I think that smell is definitely coming from Aunt May. They scoff and go back to listening to this eulogy drag on. A quick look around and I’m fairly sure I’m ruining this funeral and most people seem to be hoping that I die next. However, I’m not leaving until after I eat my fill of funeral falafel.

The service continues, a lot of people are tearing up and I don’t think it’s just from my gas leak. This priest is really going on. He really wants us to feel like we need to believe in God, come back to church, and give a lot of money to this place if we want to see Aunt May in heaven when we die. Well, I’ve got news for you, Father, I didn’t like visiting Aunt May when she was on Earth; so if heaven is anything like her house it’s going to reek of pet dander and medical cream by the time I die so just count me out.

Wow, I really hope I remembered to set up my DV-R to record that Maury marathon I’m missing by being here—forgetting that would be the real tragedy.