My Best Friends' Funeral

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Rating just in case.
This is what I would imagine would happen at my best friends' funeral. And mine, knowing my luck.

Submitted: November 29, 2008

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Submitted: November 29, 2008



The room was filled with people. Well… kind of. It was friends and family only, so the room only had twenty people in it. Counting, of course, the seven funeral home owners (who got to come because they owned everything), five caterers (who brought the food), two hobos (who snuck in because of the food), and the priest.

The priest was an old geezer that no one liked who was hired for the sole purpose to tell lies about the deceased. Like, for example, how great of a person she was—

“Yeah… right,” someone coughed.

A few snickers echoed around the empty—er… I mean, packed room.

The priest then started talking about how she was clean with drugs.

“Uhmm… yeah, we had pot all the time over at my house, dude.”

“Psh, heroin all the way over here!”

“Meth at my house every weekend! Woot woot!”

The priest continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruptions. He told everyone about her purity ring. That she never had “sexual intercourse” and now never will.

“She was great in bed,” someone offered.

“What exactly does sexual intercourse mean anyway? Does it mean to have sex? If so, why don’t they just say it then?

The priest glared at the audience, clearly running out of “good” things to say about her.

“Friends,” someone coughed.

“Ahh, yes, the deceased’s’ friends were good ones who stuck by her through thick and thin. Even when she was—“

“PMSing and blaming everything on everyone but herself…”

“About to kill me! She tried to push me out of a school bus window! While the bus was moving!”

“Oh, shut up about that. That was six months ago! Get over it already!”

“Wait… how old is she again?”

“Sixteen, dumbass!”

“Oh, really? Wow… sucks to be her. Died at the age of sixteen and still a virgin!? That’s got to be some sort of record!”

Someone snorted. “Yeah… no kidding.”

The priest coughed angrily, trying to get the funeral guests to stop talking trash about the dead.

Then, one of the two guys who came (even though, like, fifty were invited), stood up, stretched, and sighed. “This is boring. I’m leaving. Anyone else coming with?” Well… said guy who just stood up, stretched, sighed and said that, just happened to be the deceased’s boyfriend.

The deceased’s best friend stood up as he went to leave. “Hey. Wanna make out?”

The boyfriend shrugged. “Sure.”

“Ooh, let me watch, let me watch!”

Those three left the room and were soon followed closely by everyone but the priest, giving feeble and lame excuses as to why they were going.

“I… uhh… I’m uhh… I’ve… I’ve got a doctor’s appointment I’ve got to go to now…”

“I’m going to Canada for uhh… maple syrup and, uh… snow…”

“I actually just remembered that I’ve got something to do over there… very far away… right at this specific moment…”

The priest was the last to leave (yes, even the two hobos left after taking a couple of cookies), inching down the stage slowly. He shrugged, took a brownie, and left.

The room was empty. Except for the coffin. And the body. And the treats. And the table. And the chairs. The point is: the room was empty.

The moral of the story is: no one is going to give a crap about Kylie Ann Strife’s funeral.

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