Humorous Funeral Quotes

I did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march.

I'm gonna kill him," Eve said, or at least that was what it sounded like filtered through the pillow. Stake him right in the heart, shove garlic up his ass, and-and-" And what?" (Michael) When did you get home?" Claire demanded. Apparently just in time to hear my funeral plans. I especially like the garlic up the ass. It's...different.

I take my only exercise acting as a pallbearer at the funerals of my friends who exercise regularly.

Everything has its drawbacks, as the man said when his mother-in-law died, and they came down upon him for the funeral expenses.

The more you talk about it, rehash it, rethink it, cross analyze it, debate it, respond to it, get paranoid about it, compete with it, complain about it, immortalize it, cry over it, kick it, defame it, stalk it, gossip about it, pray over it, put it down or dissect its motives it continues to rot in your brain. It is dead. It is over. It is gone. It is done. It is time to bury it because it is smelling up your life and no one wants to be near your rotted corpse of memories and decaying attitude. Be the funeral director of your life and bury that thing!

For 3 million you could give everyone in Scotland a shovel, and we could dig a hole so deep we could hand her over to Satan in person. (on Margaret Thatcher)

Nice day for a funeral.

A premature death does not only rob one of the countless instances where one would have experienced pleasure, it also saves one from the innumerable instances where one would have experienced pain.

Most of the funeral stuff is going to be done during daylight hours,” I said. “I’m not even going to be able to attend the burial. Humans get upset when vampires burst into flames right next to them.

And you must always remember there's one good thing about being trapped down here: it'll save funeral expenses.

Jazz hadn't given her many details of exactly what life in the Dent house had been like, but he'd told her enough that she knew it wasn't hearts and flowers. Well, except for the occasional heart cut from a chest. And the kind of flowers you send to funerals.

Sympathy is why when a man is getting mugged, you let him keep his shirt after you take his life. Funerals are respectable affairs, after all.

An expensive coffin does not decrease the deceased’s chances of going to hell.

The death of a billionaire is worth more to the media than the lives of a billion poor people.

She folded her arms and then shouted, "Right you thieving scunners! How dare you steal Miss Treason's funeral meats!" "Oh, waily, waily, it's the foldin' o' the arms, the foooldin' o' the aaaarmss!" cried Daft Wullie, dropping to the ground and trying to cover himself with leaves. Around him Feegles started to wail and cower and Big Yan began to bang his head on the rear wall of the dairy.

A recent survey stated that the average person's greatest fear is having to give a speech in public. Somehow this ranked even higher than death which was third on the list. So, you're telling me that at a funeral, most people would rather be the guy in the coffin than have to stand up and give a eulogy.

Not everything happens for a reason; we claim that it does for a reason: to console ourselves.

What about Isabelle?" Simon asked. "Where is she?" The humor, such as it was, left Jace's expression. "She won't come out of her room," he said. "She thinks that what happened to Max was her fault. She won't even come to the funeral." "Have you tried talking to her?" "No," Jace said, "we've been punching her repeatedly in the face instead. Why, do you think that won't work?" "Just thought I'd ask." Simon's tone was mild.

It's not what I'd want for at my funeral. When I die, I just want them to plant me somewhere warm. And then when the pretty women walk over my grave I would grab their ankles, like in that movie.

Stop stealing the funeral meats right now, you wee scuggers!" She shouted. The Feegles stopped and stared at her. Then Rob Anybody said: "Socks wi'oot feets?

What the hell are you doing here? You weren't on the guest list. Hell, you people aren't on anybody's guest list. If you turned up at a funeral, the corpse would walk out on you.

I hope you die.... P.S. If you do die, I'm going to go to the funeral and finger your corpse.

I want to laugh hysterically into a bucket of water, have my humor imprinted on each water molecule and then drink the funniest drink ever.

Death would not surprise us as often as it does, if we let go of the misbelief that newborns are less mortal than the elderly.

It was a perfect title, in that it crystallized the article's niggling mindlessness, its funeral parade of yawn-enforcing facts, the pseudo-light it threw upon non-problems.

I am too old a soldier to believe that. Hoster will be chiding me about the Redwyne girl even as we light his funeral pyre, damn his bones.

You're doing fucking awesome, Colt whispers in my ear and I can't help but smile at that. Only he would use the word 'fuck' at my mom's funeral.

I dont suppose i can wear my flamingo tie" "it's a bit festive,given the occastion" "Cant wear it to the opera","Cant wear it to a funeral. Cant use it to hang myself. it's a bit useless, as ties go.

I never saw a dollar bill cry at anyone's funeral.

I never go to weddings. Waste of time. Person can get married a dozen times. Lots of folks do. Family like ours, know everybody in the state of Texas and around outside, why, you could spend your life going to weddings. But a funeral, that's different. You only die once.

Bashere shrugged, grinning brhind his grey-streaked moustaches, "When I first slept in a saddle, Muad Cheade was Marshal-General. The man was as mad as a hare in spring thaw. Twice every day he searched his bodyservant for poison, and he drank nothing but vinegar and water which he claimed was sovereign against the poison the fellow fed him, but he ate everything the man prepared for as long as I knew him. Once he had a grove of oaks chopped down because they were looking at him. And then insisted they be given decent funerals; he gave the oration. Do you have any idea how long it takes to dig graves for twenty-three oak trees?" "Why didn't somebody do something? His Family?" "Those not as mad as him, or madder, were afraid to look at him sideways. Tenobia's father wouldn't have let anyone touch Cheade anyway. He might have been insane, but he could outgeneral anyone I ever saw. He never lost a battle. He never even came close to losing.

Graham Chapman, co-author of the "Parrot Sketch", is no more. He has ceased to be. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. He's kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the great Head of Light Entertainment in the sky. And I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, of such capability for kindness, of such unusual intelligence, should now so suddenly be spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he'd achieved many of the things of which he was capable, and before he'd had enough fun. Well, I feel that I should say: nonsense. Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard, I hope he fries. And the reason I feel I should say this is he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this glorious opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. (He paused, then claimed that Chapman had whipered in his ear while he was writing the speech): All right, Cleese. You say you're very proud of being the very first person ever to say 'shit' on British television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to become the first person ever at a British memorial service to say 'fuck'.

Attending a funeral would leave the average person insane, if they truly believed that sooner or later they are also going to die.

At the moment Kay was closing Emily McNab’s casket for the last time, the solemn moment had been pierced by a small, but insistent voice from the back of the church. An inquisitive little girl wanted to know, “Mommy, who’s that lady in the suitcase?” With the exception of the child’s mortified mother, the congregation had enjoyed a good laugh.

Very few conversations with Charles Dickens did not include a laugh from him. I had never met a man so given to laughter. Almost no moment or context was too serious for this author not to find some levity in it, as some of us had discovered to our embarrassment at funerals.

Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.

Most of us cling to life as if our existence were a result of our deed or choice.

Most human beings would have never been pained by the death of a human being if they had never seen a human being or pretending to be pained by that.

Hey, listen,' I say. " Fascinating as this is, we've got to go now. I have to collect the invites for my funeral." That shuts them up. Fiona looks astonished." Really? " Yeah." I grab Zoey's arm. "It's a shame i can't be there myself - i like parties. Text me if you think of any good hymns!

Granana doesn't understand what the big deal is. She didn't cry at Olivia's funeral, and I doubt she even remembers Olivia's name. Granana lost, like, ninety-two million kids in childbirth. All of her brothers died in the war. She survived the Depression by stealing radish bulbs from her neighbors' garden, and fishing the elms for pigeons. Dad likes to remind us of this in a grave voice, as if it explained her jaundiced pitilessness: "Boys. Your grandmother ate pigeons.

It makes no difference what you wear, really. I'll put you in a dark grey. I believe I have some left over from a funeral." says the dressmaker.

Death would be an extremely bad thing like most of us paint it, if being dead were painful.

The fact that you have just buried your parent or parents and/or sibling or siblings does not make you less likely to die today.

The worst thing about planning your own funeral is knowing that you won't be there to enjoy it.

When I die have Jamie Cook sing at my funeral so my death will be the second most tragic event.

We saw also an autograph letter of Lucrezia Borgia, a lady for whom I have always entertained the highest respect, on account of her rare histrionic capabilities, her opulence in solid gold goblets made of gilded wood, her high distinction as an operatic screamer, and the facility with which she could order a sextuple funeral and get the corpses ready for it.

That's right. Carrington didn't want to marry the likes of me. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the negotiation table.” “Did you enjoy the dragging?” He glanced down at her. “Yes, I rather did,” she confessed. “It was amusing threatening to strip his house bare to the last plank on the floor and the last spoon in the kitchen.” “My parents are convinced of your grief.” She heard the smile in his voice. “They said tears streamed down your face at his funeral.” “For nearly three years of hard work down the drain, I cried like a bereaved mother.

Fifteen minutes, a myriad of cups, kleenexes and freshly-vacuumed floor mats and seat cushions later, Kay had the interior of the limousine looking ship-shape. Inching backward out of the car on her knees, she caught a glimpse of one last bit of trash she’d missed hiding under the driver’s seat. Lowering her chest to the floor, she stretched her arm under the seat as far as it would go. She grabbed the item and pulled it out and raised herself up from her crouched position. She took one look at the used condom swinging from her fingers, screamed and flung it across the top of the front seat, where it stuck to the air conditioner vents on the dash. She knelt there staring at the thin latex mess, a million scenarios racing through her mind.

Ah its fine. I don't mind." Hadrain sucked his breath in sharply. "Ooo, T. Have a care with that word. It always gives me chills." Talyn frowned. "What word?" "Fine. I hate it." "Seriously?" "Uh yeah. Are you out of your mind? I live with Jayne and two daughters. The most terrifying four-lettered-f-word a woman says in my house is 'fine.' I swear, every time I hear it, I cringe." Nero laughed. "Jayne? What have you done to my brother?" Kissing her cheek, Hadrain flashed a teasing grin. "Let me put it to you this way... God forbid anything should ever happen to her, but if it does I'm under orders to chain and lock her coffin shut during the middle of the funeral just to freak everyone out

Panic strikes me when I think about a sentence that isn’t given the chance to live because I don’t have a pen in my hand or am not sitting near enough to someone familiar to speak it to. Especially if it’s a particularly good sentence, a sentence with truth or beauty or humor or sadness to it. The best ones always take you by surprise. They sneak into your head while you’re walking down the aisles at a supermarket, or flat-out assault you when you’re at your grandmother’s funeral, and you have to scramble to give the thought life before it’s gone forever. Cocktail napkins, palms, text messages sent to yourself.

We always emerge from the death of a loved one like a phoenix arising from its funeral pyre.

Since you act as though God is dead, I wanted to join you in the mourning." The reply of Martin Luther's wife, in full funeral regalia, in trying to illustrate the folly of his depressed state.

Some people will each start investing more of their salary on ‘their’ house and spending less of it on ‘their’ car or cars only when they start being able to take ‘their’ house to work, funerals, weddings, etc.

Uhhh . . . How could he believe that the cause of their investigation was alleged fornication? The insatiable old man already sculls with a single paddle on the funeral longboat but craves power like a youth king.

Inej looked at her strange crew, barefoot and shivering in their soot-stained prison uniforms, their features limned by the golden light of the dome, softened by the mist that hung in the air. What bound them together? Greed? Desperation? Was it just the knowledge that if one or all of them disappeared tonight, no one would come looking? Inej’s mother and father might still shed tears for the daughter they’d lost, but if Inej died tonight, there would be no one to grieve for the girl she was now. She had no family, no parents or siblings, only people to fight beside. Maybe that was something to be grateful for, too. It was Jesper who spoke first. “No mourners,” he said with a grin. “No funerals,” they replied in unison. Even Matthias muttered the words softly. “If any of you survive, make sure I have an open casket,” Jesper said as he hefted two slender coils of rope over his shoulder and signalled for Wylan to follow him across the roof. “The world deserves a few more moments with this face.

Justin vomited in his mouth a little as he gazed upon a sea of black outfits and sidelocks. They looked like they were ready for a heavy metal concert, a funeral, or the hell that is a Brit Milah. Fuck, they looked ridiculous.

First things first, I'm going to tell you why I'm fat, because I actually get this question a lot, much in the way people are asked how they got into live-action role playing or funeral home cosmetology. The answer I'd like to give to people who ask me that question is that God made us all different, and she made some people round-shaped, like me, and some people asshole-shaped, like you. Too direct? Fine, here's the deal. Most kids inherit their best qualities from their parents. I inherited mental illness and fat thighs. Oh, and astigmatism and course body hair.

Wining and dining instead of crying and wailing at a funeral in sympathy with the bereaved is a mockery of condolence. If the dead are capable of anything, they will zip up the mouth of everyone in attendance except those crying and condoling.

How're you holding up?" He slid down the wall next to me and handed me a beer. "I've had better days." I took a long, satisfying drink and stared at the wall in front of me. "Yeah," was his simple reply. "My dad is downstairs. He said this wake sucks." I could hear that he was smiling. I took another swig. "Well, I didn't plan this shindig, but the next funeral I host, I'll make sure it's a rager.

So might I suggest at your earliest convenience that you pay a visit to the Okins Funeral Salon to make arrangements?" "Why'd I wanna do that?" she says so damn snippy. "Because on my return visit you can count on my beatin' the ever-lovin' shit outta you with a rusty shovel. Twice.

A story given in Lillian Hellman's Scoundrel Time. While attending the funeral of Hollywood producer Harry Cohn with a large number of mourners a friend said to George Jessel - I never saw such a mob at a funeral. Jessel replied - Same old story: you give 'em what they want and they'll fill the theater.

My Corolla, sorry to report, was mortally wounded in the attack. There were no funeral plans at this time.

She would die faking her death. All she could think about was how much Marius would laugh at her funeral.

Of course I love you. For real. I will sure come and personally meet you myself. Just to make sure you're well. When is your funeral?

A funeral home is a somber and gloomy place where people wait in line to view the lifeless, a post office goes further and also sells stamps.

You see in death a separation. But death also connects us. It is our one common destination.

We the living are to blame for the painfulness of being dead.

New Orleanians knew how to turn deprivation into an asset; they had the best gallows humor going, they danced at funerals, they insisted on prevailing.

Am I late for my own funeral?

According to Arch-Aunt Schadenfreude, a funeral ought to look like a wedding upside down.

Whenever I start thinking about death, it always cheers me up to think about my funeral and my tombstone (which, by the way, will say "Here lies Harlan Sturr. Please don't pee on him.")

There are worse things than eating the dead, my dear fellow. Far worse things. There is, for instance, making a huge profit out of their funeral, which is the normal custom in the civilized world.

A man with no character flaws is a man who recently died and is being eulogized at his own funeral by someone surprised that he left his entire estate to them. One day that man will be me, and I'll be leaving all my ducks to you.

Did you hear the one about the funeral procession? Well, this funeral procession was goin’ up the hill to the church and the back door of the hearse flew open and out shoots the casket and, blametty blam, down the hill it goes through the intersection with horns blowin’ and people dodgin’ out of the way, and it runs on down the street and jumps up on the sidewalk and busts in through the pharmacy door and shoots down the aisle to the druggist and the lid pops up and this guy sits up and says: ‘Got anything to stop this coffin?

Who’s that?” Yngve said, nodding discreetly in the direction of a woman. She wore a hat with a veil that concealed her face. “No idea,” I said. “But all self-respecting funerals have a woman no one recognizes.” We laughed. “Well, the danger’s over now,” Yngve said, and we both laughed again.

As they entered, a wire-haired fox terrier of irreproachable breeding, rose from the hearth-rug and came to meet them with leisurely dignity. Marcus effected an introduction hastily. ‘Foon,’ he said. ‘Written “Featherstonehaugh”.’ Somewhat to his host’s embarrassment Mr Campion shook hands with the dog, who seemed to appreciate the courtesy, for he followed them back to the hearth-rug, waiting for them to be seated before he took up his position on the rug again, where he sat during the rest of the proceedings with the same air of conscious breeding which characterized his master.

Robert Ingersoll's character was as nearly perfect as it is possible for the character of mortal man to be... none sweeter or nobler had ever blessed the world. The example of his life was of more value to posterity than all the sermons that were ever written on the doctrine of original sin... The genius for humor and wit and satire of a Voltaire, a wide amplitude of imagination, and a greatness of heart and brain that placed him upon an equal footing with the greatest thinkers of antiquity. He stands, at the close of his career, the first great reformer of the age. {Thomas' words at the funeral of the great Robert Ingersoll}

I am so sorry to hear of Asher's passing. I will miss his scientific insight and advice, but even more his humor and stubborn integrity. I remember when one of his colleagues complained about Asher's always rejecting his manuscript when they were sent to him to referee. Asher said in effect, 'You should thank me. I am only trying to protect your reputation.' He often pretended to consult me, a fellow atheist, on matters of religious protocol. {Charles H. Bennett's letter written to the family of Israeli physicist, Asher Peres}

President Grant sent a note to Golden. The note read that there was a member of the stake presidency from Coalville, who had passed away. His wife had requested Golden speak at the funeral. Golden didn’t get the note until he returned from a Church assignment in Southern California. By then the funeral was in an hour, and Coalville was almost two hours away He hopped in his Model T and drove as fast as he could. When he arrived, the funeral was almost over. The bishop saw Golden walk in. "Brother Kimball, come forward. We’d like to hear from you." He went up and said, "I’m very happy to be here. I’m sorry I’m late. I want to tell you what a wonderful person this man was. I knew him, I’ve stayed in his home. He was an inspiration to me. He was a good father, he was a good husband. He goes to a great reward." As he started to hit his stride, he looked out in the audience. About the eighth row back, there sat the man he thought was dead! So he looked down in the casket. He did not recognize the man lying there. Confused, he turned and said, "Say Bishop, who the hell’s dead around here anyway?

I'll end up with a boatload of, I don't even know... chairs that'll remind me of my failure for years to come. Eventually I'll start conversing to the chairs because I'm so bitter and lonely, and before you know it, I'll start treating them as my children, and you'll start receiving Christmas cards from me and my family of chairs. I'll die surrounded by my chair children, and you'll have to transport them all to my funeral and set them up next to the grave, which is both sad and convenient because my human mourners, the few there might be, can sit on my kids.' -Kai

Van Gogh on his brother's upcoming marriage: "It’s because he’s in Holland, where he’s getting married one of these days. Now, while not denying the advantages of a marriage in the very least, once it has been done and one is quietly set up in one’s home, the funereal pomp of the reception &c., the lamentable congratulations of two families (even civilized) at the same time, not to mention the fortuitous appearances in those pharmacist’s jars where antediluvian civil or religious magistrates sit – my word – isn’t there good reason to pity the poor unfortunate obliged to present himself armed with the requisite papers in the places where, with a ferocity unequalled by the cruellest cannibals, you’re married alive on the low heat of the aforementioned funereal receptions.

But he said to his wife, sitting next to him on the couch in the TV room, that rarely had he seen a funeral at which it seemed like almost nobody in attendance had any idea why they were there. His wife, who had heard things like this from him before, reminded him of a ceremony he had presided over only a few months ago about which he had had the same reaction. 'Oh right,' the minister said. 'Yes. That one was much worse.' He leaned down to the coffee table and picked up the remote.

Having our old Gran in the car was like having a cranky 'Tassie Tiger' sitting in the back. You never knew when she might jump forward and bite you on the back of your neck.

Something happened tonight, Etienne. And I need to tell you.” Pausing a moment, he scanned her face with narrowed eyes. Then he lowered himself beside her. “Something’s changed, hasn’t it, cher?” he murmured. “Yes.” “And you’ve changed with it.” And then she told him. About her feelings at the funeral home, her sadness and sense of loss, her sudden and overwhelming revelation of purpose, and hearing her grandfather’s voice. Everything but having hidden and watched and eavesdropped on his own personal sorrow. When she’d gotten it all out, neither of them spoke. He’d moved closer to her, and, for the moment, it made her feel safe. “You know what I keep wondering?” Miranda’s tone went even more serious. “I keep wondering if all those spirits think I’m the one who’s lost.” That not-quite-smile brushed his lips. “We’re all a little lost. We’re all trying to find something.” Miranda considered this. “I know you and Grandpa tried to tell me before. About my gift…and how I can do so much good with it. But tonight--for the first time--it was real to me. Like I finally got it. Like it finally all made sense.” “Sometimes we can be hearing the same stuff over and over again, yeah? And we know it’s true, we know it there”--Etienne lightly tapped her forehead--“but what matters is when we finally know it here.” As he touched his heart, she couldn’t help giving a wan smile. “The weird thing is…I’m okay with it. I mean, I’m still sort of scared…but I’m okay.” “You’ve always been okay, cher. Way more than okay.” As her cheeks flushed, she hoped he hadn’t noticed. “How am I ever going to know all the stuff I need to know? I mean, I need to learn everything.” “Tonight?” Etienne kept a perfectly straight face. “I’m not sure I’m up to it.” Miranda’s stare was deliberately reproachful. “This is about Nathan. He needs me. Now.” Groaning softly, Etienne lay back, pillowing his arms beneath his head. “I can see I’m gonna have to be humoring you. So what do you wanna talk about?

Everything’s subject to humor. Nothing’s sacred. At a funeral, he’ll put on a somber face and remark, ‘Well, Uncle Joe finally escaped the IRS.’ Or in the middle of a wedding, he’ll comment, “Everyone in her family looks alike. How can he be sure which one he’s marrying?’” —Carol, Ann Arbor, MI

After all, whistling put everyone at ease. Unless it was a funeral dirge. But he didn't want to think about that." Montague.

After all, whistling put everyone at ease. Unless it was a funeral dirge. But he didn't want to think about that.

You still are? There go my plans! And the suit I had bought to attend your funeral. Well, well. Anyway, do call me up when you an't.

Aren't there a lot of scruffy buggers at funerals?

Funeral parlor, beauty parlor, a place where divine transformation occurs. The same could be said for ice cream parlors: For the divine transformation of your mood, try pleasuring your mouth hole with two sacred scoops. I scream, you scream, we all scream for the Good Lord’s cream. Tips appreciated. Thx 4 tipping. Feelin’ tipsy? Tipping is hot. Tip your funeral director (not your canoe!).

One day John J. Eastwood said, “There is a bad guy in town.” He said, “I want to fight him.” “First”, he said, “I’m going to have some whiskey.” Then he went outside and started a fight. But he got shot. But he didn’t really get shot. But he killed a hot dog! The next day he was dead. We had his funeral..... Kids, this is about westerns

Mother spent a lot of her spare time choosing places to be buried in, but they were generally situated in the most remote areas, and one had vision of the funeral cortege dropping exhausted by the wayside long before it had reached the grave.

Catholic gossip and folklore, as one might term it, contributed to this demonizing legend around the conflict with the Protestants. At Geila in Brabant it was reported that the demons suddenly left all the possessed people, so that they could attend Luther's funeral[...] At St. Medard's Church in Paris the Calvinist iconoclasts allegedly broke all the winfows except that 'in gratitude' they left one which showed a red devil. In several other places, including St. Paul's in London, iconoclastic mobs left only depictions of devils untouched.

47. “I’m sorry” and “I apologize” mean the same thing. Except at a funeral.

53. My elderly relatives liked to tease me at weddings, saying, “You’ll be next!” They stopped once I started doing the same to them at funerals.

I am eating your favorite character's plot armor, hold a funeral.

Mr.Hoffman once saw me taking out the trash and said it inspired him to make me a pallbearer at his funeral. He told me to make sure they played ‘At Last’ by Etta James because that’s what everyone in town would be thinking when he finally keeled over. He wanted Get Off My Lawn engraved on his headstone to scare kids away from standing on his grave.

The whole experience is disappointing,” Lionel Vayne agreed. “What you want at a funeral is drama. Wailing into hankies and tearing at clothes. Weeping mourners throwing themselves on to the coffins. I’d give the whole thing three out of ten.

From the moment any of us utter our first goo-goo's and ga-ga's, we are as good as gone. At that precise instant, any possibility that It will ever arise in us is irrevocably crushed. If any proof is needed, consider how immune to strong emotion our society has grown. At your next visit to the local funeral parlor, glance at the mourners, who can more properly be defined as spectators. Notice how they smell, how well-dressed and dignified they are. This is because viewing the dead has become overwhelmingly acceptable as a social function. Yes, even the corpse is part of the festivities, lying there as the guest of honor, laid out in his best clothes, pumped full of chemicals and smeared with make-up as the patrons file by and nurse their long buried consciences with silk handkerchiefs.