You're at your uncle's funeral--you're craving candy, but you don't know what's appropriate. You pull some Red Vines from your pocket. Somehow during the walk from the car to the cemetery they twisted together and now look like a noose. The priest stops his eulogy and gives you a stern look. Your family members weep; your father shakes his head and whispers, "I have no son." Then the priest snaps his bible shut and seems to glide toward you. From his sleeve his hand pulls forth a...
...Laffy Epitaphy--the official unofficial sacrament endorsed by the Catholic Church for mourners in need of a rich rib-tickler.
As the priest finishes up prayers, you step forward and clear your throat. The joke that spews from your lips completely erases the earlier Red Vines incident. The priest nods in approval. Everyone laughs. Your father tapes back together the previously ripped apart picture of you and him on that fishing trip last spring.
Everyone walks back to the cars in a much better mood than when the funeral began. You lag behind because a tingling sensation has started to fester in your neck. In a matter of seconds your throat closes up--breaths become impossible. Your vision fades to black as you collapse on the grass. The priest reappears and kicks your immobile body into the hole with your uncle. "Did you really think jokes that brought back the love of your father wouldn't come with a price? How naive you are," you hear him say as shoveled dirt rains down upon your face.
Sold wherever last rites are accompanied by a cream pie-in-the-face prank.