Reality Funerals

Mack Hall

Several weeks ago a fellow who made his living arguing with people on the tellyvision died unexpectedly (but, really, does anyone expect to die on a given day?), and all the people he argued with suddenly got weepy about him.

Indeed, the retro-hagiography was fulsome enough to suggest that Jesus could have learned a lot from the tellyvision talk-show host.

Death has its fears, of course, the fear of God’s just punishments, the fear of what will happen to family members, and, even worse, the fear of someone interrupting the priest or minister at the funeral and suggesting "Hey, let’s each of us share a memory of the dear departed."

People who suffer these moments that bridge the cultural gap between Goofy and Oprah are the reason that wise people sit by the door at contemporary weddings and funerals, ready to bolt for sanity, safety, and freedom.

Imagine the eulogy if some sort of law or moral code required anyone speaking at a funeral to tell the plain, unperfumed truth about the more-or-less-dear departed:

He forgot where he came from.

Give back to the community? Give back what? Did he take something that wasn’t his?

When they made him did they broke the mold? No, he was just another man. And who are "they?" And what mold?

He often met strangers. And he sometimes met men he didn’t like.

He wasn’t sharing Jesus last week; he was sharing a bottle with some other old reprobate.

He didn’t have a favorite football team; he thought the idea of a bunch of grown men wearing made-in-China costumery and yelling at a television set pretty stupid.

No, he really wasn’t much of a family man.

He preferred poker to honest work.

He wondered why a fat kid with a cell ‘phone and tattoos needs a free lunch.

His word was his bond, and people who knew him didn’t trust either one.

He could have bathed more often.

He cheated widows and orphans.

He always talked about his working-class origins, but he wouldn’t hit a lick at a snake.

Oh, yeah, he was always bragging about being Irish. He couldn’t find Ireland on a map, though.

Oh, yeah, he was always bragging about being Irish, even though his monthly check was headed "The United States of America."

He was an old grouch who didn’t like dogs, though he did once admit that children went well enough with tater tots and habanera sauce.

He didn’t tip waitresses or sack boys; he thought they ought to be happy with minimum wage.

He always said that 100 channels of cable tv had more meaning for him than volunteering at the nursing home or the library or the school.

If you were down on your luck or needed help in any way, you could depend on him to refer you to somebody else.

When his hard-working wife of blessed memory gave him money to take the kids for their childhood vaccinations he spent it all on lottery tickets.

And, finally, his hero and role model was always Ted Kennedy.