My Funeral

by Slimy Philly…

I have this recurring nightmare.  It’s like that Cheers episode where Eddie Lebec, Carla’s husband, dies, and both his wives show up.  Only my nightmare is worse. Much worse.

It’s the day of my funeral and there I am in my casket.  It’s a shitty casket, but I couldn’t care less about that. The first speaker comes to the pulpit and I’m not sure which frightens me more, the fact that I’m dead, or that I’m powerless to stop him from speaking.  People in my family are not much known for holding their tongues.

First up: my cousin Bubba.  Who doesn’t have a cousin Bubba?

“We’re all really gonna miss Cousin Freddy.”

Freddy.  That’s me.

“We’re gonna miss his delicious BBQ brisket, the NFL on Sunday, and his home-brewed beer.”

Hmm.  Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad, after all.

“We’re gonna miss his generous nature, and how he was always there to lend a nickel and a hand.”

Truer words never spoken.

“I’ll never forget the time we were in the city.”

Oh, shit.

“We went there for a massage, if you know what I mean.  All I can say is, we both had quite a happy ending.”

A few of the men laughed, but not the women.  Especially my wife.

Next up: my niece, Marva.

“We’re all going to miss Uncle Freddy,” she said, and she began to well up.  Of all my relatives, I knew I could count on my niece, Marva, to remember me for the better man I was.

“I’ll never forget the time I was twelve and he took me to the Ringling Bros.”

Yes.  That was a wonderful time.

“The Greatest Show on Earth?  That was nothing compared to what Uncle Freddy showed me that night.”

Shit!  I forgot about that.

“As if the clowns weren’t horrifying enough, afterward we went for ice cream, then he took me to a motel and sodomized me like some kind of circus freak.  I was a virgin, Uncle Freddy,” she shouted, turning toward me.  “Now, I’m a prostitute.  A crack whore.  Thanks a lot, you goddamn sunuvabitch.  I hope you rot in hell, Uncle Freddy.”

That went well.

Next up: my older brother, Anthony.  I had no illusions about my older brother.  This was not going to be good.

“My brother, Freddy,” said Anthony.  “I have to admit, I didn’t expect to see him here.  Not before me.  I mean, I was the problem child.  I was the one always getting into trouble.  Freddy, I always thought Freddy was going to be the one who turned out right.  Out of all of us fuckups, I really did believe he was the one who had an honest-to-God shot at turning out okay.”

Interesting.  I never would have thunk it.  I guess it just goes to show, you never know about some people.

“Freddy was always the kind and gentle one.  Sensitive.”

That’s right.  That’s me, Mr. Sensitive.

“Most of you don’t know this, but Freddy sucked his thumb until he was fifteen.”


“He used to wet the bed, too.”

Thanks, a lot.  What about the time you shit your pants?  You going to tell everyone about that, too?

“But my favorite story about Freddy was the day mom first took him to kindergarten.  I bet most of you don’t know this, but Freddy cried like a little girl.  The whole fucking day.  They put him in the closet he was crying so loud.  Mom had to come pick him up and take him home.  Remember that, mom?”

Mother laughed.  Et tu, Ma?  Et tu?

I was beginning to feel like the guest of honor at a Dean Martin roast, only this time, it wasn’t Dean but the devil himself, and I wasn’t in Las Vegas, but Hell.

After that, the floodgates opened.

Next was my sister, Katrina, talking about how I used to play with her dolls.  Then my other sister, Fredrika, and all the times she caught me masturbating.  And oh yes, let’s not forget dear-old dad, and how when I was in 4th grade I got beat up by Molly “Monster-face” Meegan and came home crying like a baby. (I thought we covered the crying already.)  Then there was my mother, who reminded everyone how I breast fed until I was eight.  Thanks a lot, mom.  With a family like this, no wonder I was so fucked up.

But the day would not have been complete without my wife taking the stand.  “Nobody knows this but me,” said Tina, my wife, “but Freddy liked taking it up the ass.”

Sweet Jesus.

“At first, it was just my vibrator, but then he talked me into wearing a strap-on, this big black strap-on dildo that went all the way up his rear end.”

Just kill me.  Kill me already.  I wish I was dead.  Wait, I was dead.

“The next part, Maybelline” says my wife, looking at my mother, “you’ll find most interesting of all.”  Maybelline is my mother’s name, but most of us just call her Mabel.  “Next thing you know, your son starts calling me Mabel, screaming ‘Fuck me, Mabel.  Fuck me, Mommy.  Then, he cums.”

“I knew it,” shouted my mother.  “I knew it.”

This is the part of the dream where I always wake up; and every time I think, I’m going to change.  I’m going to straighten up and fly right.  But then I think, What’s the point?  It’s too late now; the damage is done.

It’s at this point I always decide, You know what I’ll do?  I won’t die.  Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.  I just won’t die.  That’ll show ‘em.

Good plan.

Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas.

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