Worst Eulogy ever.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A terrible eulogy, given by a nephew.

Submitted: May 14, 2014

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Submitted: May 14, 2014

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Worst Eulogy ever.

Spencer Paul.
 

My Uncle Tim had, what he liked to call, “the only haircut fit for a king”. His Mullet defied all conventions of the Mullet hairstyle, and completely disregarded the coveted definition thereof, as dictated by the Stockholm Symposium of 78’. Instead of the appropriate, and outside of major urban areas, and most of Europe accepted, fifty-fifty percent, business in the front and party in the back, uncle Tim, liking, to remind everyone as he did, that he had’nt had a job since he lost his left, middle, ring, and little finger, along with sixty five percent of his left nipple. And although to this day I am not entirely sure how a Doctor measured his nipple to within thirty five percent of useless evolutionary joke, I did believe Tim, when he said that when he showed that courtroom pictures of his once normal chest, complete with hairline, and tattoo that stated he loved some woman named Janis, juxtaposed to his post accident, freak nipple, and tattoo that for the remainder of his days read anis, that, that jury, then and there, decided in his favor, and ensured that the Delmond Safety Company would owe him disability and a large undisclosed sum settled outside of court.

Yes, Uncle Tim’s Mullet was void of any business. But for what it lacked in professionalism, it made up for with one hundred and ten percent of party, all the way from his greasy wrinkled brow, down to his awkwardly curved shoulder blades. They freaked me out when I was younger, his shoulder blades I mean. They protruded out from what I would think to be a natural position, and took on a grotesque and fearsome appearance, like that of Nosferatu if you were to happen upon him at night. And when I grew older he told me the same story that he told all of us, that, when he was in that Viet Cong P.O.W. camp the “Little Savages” would dance on his back while laughing and speaking in tongues. Of course we all knew this wasn’t true, on account of the fact the army wouldn’t let Uncle Tim in, on account of his horribly disfigured shoulder blades. But I digress.

Tim’s Mullet changed over the years, from the robust and shimmering bronze color of his youth, to a state of dull tin, in his waning years. The bald spot on his head glistened in the sun like the lagoon of a Pacific atoll surrounded by the dead and dying foliage of a barren and desolate islet. The few remaining thick spots were in areas Tim told me were, “the least pet by the ladies.” In fact aside from the mysterious anis, Tim had many “lovers.” The likely source of this delusion, were his encroaching symptoms of Syphyllis, most likely contracted by a pea soup eating, red wine drinking prostitute, during an ill fated trip to Quebec. A trip, which not unlike most of Uncle Tim’s endeavor’s ended with a flare up of his hemorrhoids, and required the activity to desist at once.

In conclusion ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, Uncle Tim was a pretty strange humpbacked old man, who for most of my life terrified me. He will be missed, if not for his elaborate stories of fancy, then for his money, which above all, is why I loved my Uncle Tim.


© Copyright 2018 Spencer Paul. All rights reserved.

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