The Funeral: The Beginning

Raven—Walk Through Fire

MoTW—Gigantic

Finally the day arrived, the day of the funeral. The day we had all been
waiting for. The buildup leading to the climax. That and everything
else.

While everyone was fretting about what to wear, I had no worried. Simple
flannel and jeans for me, cause I have no class whatsoever.

So we have the sister in black, he husband dressed up like Guido The
Hitman Pimp (if he was wearing a suit) and the oldest son demanding a
dress jacket, something which he didn't have but managed to find hiding
in the back of my sister's closet.

Even though he was told that yes, it sure DID look like a woman's
jacket, he didn't mind which makes me wonder about his future
endeavours….

Back to the funeral home we all went since there was a body lying there
just waiting to be picked up since it was lonely and all that.

The casket was picked up and tossed into the back of the hearse and
then, for the first time ever, I was able to legally take part of a
funeral procession, stop signs and stop lights be damned!

As soon as we pull out of the funeral home parking lot, my sister lowers
her window and begins vomiting. I found this to be wondrous since this
really wasn't your typical funeral so someone spewing their breakfast
onto the windshield of the car behind us was just a New Jersey thing,
something a passerby wouldn't even give a second glance at.

I guess not turning on your headlights to prove you're in a funeral
procession doesn't work in your favor since I was forced to stop at
every fucking stop sign and stop light and the floor it to catch up with
the folks ahead, all while the non-stop vomiting continued from the
passenger seat.

We finally made it to the church and someone had the brilliant idea that
we needed to bring the flowers into the church, so a bunch of us grabbed
those flowers and walked the mile or so to the church, laving a colorful
trail behind us. Of course when we entered the church, some lunkhead who
worked there or something said that we didn't need to bring them in, so
we has to trudge the 90 or so miles back to the car, leaving more
flowers in our wake.

All this time, being no help absolutely fucking whatever, my sister got
out of the car and decided the time was good enough for her to enter the
church to join in the celebration. Yeah, like that day revolved around
her. Selfish bitch.

We smoked and chatted about nothing important to me while we headed to
the church. Then, as we were walking up the stairs, I felt as if I were
on fire. I began screaming and tried to run away, but my sister grabbed
me by the arm and forced me into the church as the skin began melting
from my face. I pointed this out to her and she reminded me that I had
dropped some acid at the funeral home, so it all made sense.

The service had already begun and we found a seat in the back, away from
everyone. As soon as we sat down, my sister began retching and I grabbed
the closest thing available and soon she was quietly vomiting into a
hymnal.

And the priest or father or whatever you call 'em talked and talked and
talked, and the people prayed and prayed and prayed and my sisted puked
and puked and puked as I yawned and yawned and yawned and other people
cried and cried and cried. You know, your typical funeral, but JERSEY
STYLE!

Then it was time for the folks to partake in the skin of Jesus and some
alcohol to wash it down which I declined since I'm a firm believer of
eating only the skin of who I kill myself so we sat and watched the sad
people walk up to have a wafer shoved down their throats followed by
some good ole apple wine (or whatever was cheapest that day) and then,
heads hanging low since they were, well, sad I guess, they trudged back
to their seats.

With the people wined and dined (or dined and wined I guess) the concert
was about to start up again when my sister suddenly stiffened and I
figured her digestive problem had finally moved it's way down the tract
and she was going to let out a really big, explosive fart. Prepared to
make a run for it, I was relieved when she quietly said "The bitch is
here!" as vomit remnants flew from her mouth and splattered the back of
Aunt Bessie's brand new lavender flock eight pews ahead.

I looked to where she pointed and saw a group of chicks heading back to
their seats, one of them wearing a large necklace with the word "Maggie"
flashing red, green, purple, yellow, blue, off. Red, green, purple,
yellow, blue, off. Red, green, purple, yellow, blue, off. And on and on
and on. Quite pretty actually, but not something you should be wearing
around people who were honoring a rotting corpse I would think.

This site made her queasy again, for this Maggie she pointed out was the
same one that had been having the affair with the corpse. When the
corpse was alive. Not when it was dead, because that would be kind of
weird, even for Jersey.

We then left since I didn't think it wise to soil another hymnal, my
sister to the bathroom and me outside to have a cool, tasty smoke.

About 15 minutes later and four smokes later, the fans began leaving the
church. Next thing I heard was screaming and there, like a little
spitfire, was the wife of the deceased (who we shall refer to as
"Aglene", not her real name, but easier to type than that fucking "wife
of the deceased' shit) just going off on Maggie (actually almost her
real name, weird how these things work out) and how she shouldn't be at
the funeral and blah, blah, blah….basically ruining my calming smoke.
Selfish bitch #2.

And of course my sister is in the middle of this, either swinging her
fists and trying to hit somebody, anybody or trying t break it up, I
really couldn't tell because I found it so quaint and old-fashioned.
Plus I was on acid so everything was a bit distorted.

Eventually the little fracas broke up and everyone headed to their
vehicles, all smiles because it was time for another funeral procession.
Hooray!

COMING NEXT: More funeral madness!

Stephen Johnson

The idea of building a website with Bob came from Stephen in the days of message boards and chat rooms. We settled on the name TheWeirdcrap.com and the rest is history. Retired since he hit the ripe age of 25, he spends most his time doing odd-jobs around the house and digging thru trash bins for "stuff that's still good." Stephen has contributed several short stories and hosted the "Lunatic Ravings" column since the beggining. The idea of writing weekly columns (blogs didn't exist yet) also came from Stephen. So I guess that makes him the creator of the "blog" phenomena.

https://theweirdcrap.com

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.