Everyone is always kind to one another, and the deceased, at a funeral. Good things are said, only good memories are remembered. Then came my Uncle Jack.
At my father’s funeral, Jack rolled in, pretty loaded, and weaved his way to the front of the church. There he turned to face us and said loudly, ”Hell, Dan was a real bastard. He wouldn’t give you the time of day if your life depended on it. Being dead doesn’t make him a saint.” Jack looked into the casket sadly. “But I will miss the old son of a bitch.”
At my father’s funeral, Jack rolled in, pretty loaded, and weaved his way to the front of the church. There he turned to face us and said loudly, ”Hell, Dan was a real bastard. He wouldn’t give you the time of day if your life depended on it. Being dead doesn’t make him a saint.” Jack looked into the casket sadly. “But I will miss the old son of a bitch.”
