For that reason, I’m ending things here. The stories will remain if anyone ever wants to revisit, but I’m moving to a new, broader place.

I’m not automatically subscribing you all to the new one because you are grownups with free will. I do hope you’ll come with me though! It’s going to be fun and dumb (but in a good way).

If you’re up for it, here’s a link to the new Substack: The Community Heckler. I wanted it to sound like a newspaper but not be one. I think I succeeded.

Either way, seriously, thank you for supporting Mortified. I really do appreciate it! Y’all made me feel good, and that means a lot to this attention-seeker.

Unfortunately, there’s something uncomfortable at the center of this piece, and I’d like to start by dealing with it, so no one feels weird while reading: My grandfather died last November. He was a spectacular human being, but he was also 94.5 years old and in rapidly declining health, so while we all miss him, we also know it was time and that his quality of life was not going to amount to much. That doesn’t mean it’s nice or fun or that I’m not sad, but it does make it a little more tolerable.

When someone dies, surviving relatives often leap into their postmortem responsibilities. Some are on notification duty, getting the word out by calls, texts, and Facebook to everyone who needs to know and some who don’t—hoping not to forget anyone because we all remember what happened when Carole forgot to tell Mrs. Doris when grandma died, and she had to find out from the newspaper! Some are on research duty, hitting the internet searching funeral homes in the area, reading reviews, and calling about options and pricing. Some sprint to the closet to find the perfect viewing outfit. Some break down and become completely non-functional. And some raid the house while everyone’s distracted to ensure they get the items they want because “Daddy wanted me to have the Winchester” is basically the same as probating a will, right? Everybody plays a part.

With my five-generations-deep-in-funeral-service family, it’s a little different. My father, the funeral director of nearly 40 years, contemplates clothing options—“We need long sleeves. That just works better”—and scours the service schedule to call dibs on the perfect day and time. My mother begins writing an obituary in her head (because they don’t trust me to do it, apparently! What are you afraid of, cowards?) and considering what personal items we should display at the visitation to make things more personalized. My sister searches her brain for special songs and stories—anecdotes for the bereaved.

That leaves me, and I embalm.

I know that’s a weird responsibility, but it’s my weird responsibility. For years, I heard stories of my grandfather preparing family members and close friends, all told with great admiration and appreciation, so when my grandmother, my mother’s mother died in 2008, I, aged just shy of 26 years, apprehensively volunteered. I was nervous, but I got through it. That experience actually taught me that disassociation played a huge role in my ability to do that job. Classmates, former teachers, friends’ family members I’d know my whole life, they were not themselves while I was working. Most funeral directors and embalmers will tell you this is a calling and not a job. That can be true, but in some of those moments, I had to make it just a job—a necessary step in a necessary process that kept deceased people off the streets.

The thing is, with my grandmother, and a little over a year later with my grandfather (my mother’s father), embalming was a part of my daily duties. I was in my prime, 1995-96 Michael Jordan. When my dad’s dad died back in November, however, I had been out of the game for a while—six and a half years to be more specific. A person born on the day of my last embalming would be in first grade by now. (I know. That’s an odd way to look at it.) I felt more like 1995-96 Bill Walton. My position within the company had changed. Embalming hadn’t been on my radar for a while, so the volunteering wasn’t quite so immediate. Can I even still do it? What if something goes wrong, and I can’t fix it? Of course, the concern was less about the familial relationship and more about my ability technical ability. I’m a real piece of work.

Embalming the grandparents is my job, though, so the next morning I set out on the two-hour drive to my hometown terrified that I’d made a huge mistake and wondering how far I’d make it before talking myself into turning around. My good friends Conan O’Brien and Mike Birbiglia, through magic of podcasts, provided enough distraction that I made it off the ledge and to the funeral home. Thanks, guys!

There was a young lady there who was going to assist me and take over if I couldn’t keep going for whatever reason. She, however, had a limited window, so I needed to either get done or get to a point of confidence quickly. Speed was never my strength even in my 95-96 MJ days.

What did happen quickly, though, was falling right back into the routine. The embalming tank was filled with my old go-to (one bottle of 30 index, one bottle of 25 index, one bottle of humectant, and one bottle of arterial conditioner in 2.5 total gallons; a 2.75% solution for you embalming nerds out there). I set the features, found my vessels, checked my rate of flow, and started injecting. For you non-embalmers out there, these are all technical terms that mean I started embalming.

I did take more time than my nice assistant had, so she had to leave before I was done, and of course, that’s when the challenges came. Nothing terrible, but I did have to make some adjustments. Then, suddenly, I realized I hadn’t called my wife like she told me to to tell her I made it alive, so I grabbed the prep room phone and called her just like the old days. She was happy know I didn’t die on the way and asked about my mental and emotional wellbeing.

“How are you doing?”

Here’s the thing. When someone asks how you’re doing the day after losing a family member, you normally assume that’s what they’re talking about, and you answer accordingly. I, however, being in embalming mode, answered like this:

“Well, the bad news is he’s embalming like a 94-year-old man, but the good news is I can still find a dorsalis pedis artery.”

She sighed and asked the question again. This time, I answered the question she was actually asking and told her I was doing okay.

After something like 2.5 hours, the job was done, and I was on my way home. The next time I entered that building, it was just a few hours before my grandfather’s funeral (scheduled by my father with memories and songs curated by my sister) where his minister would read an obituary (written by my mother). We were immersed in samples of his woodworking and quilting (selected and arranged by my mother) scattered throughout two visitation rooms. And there was my grandfather in his cedar casket (selected by my father and uncle) wearing a long-sleeve, button-down shirt (selected by my father) looking like he could open his eyes at any moment and start telling stories about growing up on a Depression-era farm or his time in the Navy—looking peaceful (embalmed by me).

In September of this year, I traveled to Las Vegas to present at the National Funeral Directors Association International Convention and Expo. You’ll notice this is the middle of November, and I’m just getting to write about it. If there are any wealthy benefactors out there who’d like to support me in my writing, you may reach out to me here.

Now, I could focus this piece on my speaking topic at the convention—Improv for Funeral Directors, if you’re wondering—or the ubiquity of Elvis which for this Memphian is, well, whatever, or the free backpack I got (see below) or any number of things.

What I am choosing to spend my time and energy on today, though, is the first In-N-Out Burger experience of my life.

Before leaving for Vegas, I asked all of my good friends on LinkedIn for help finding things to do alone in Sin City that wouldn’t ruin me financially or destroy my marriage. I received two answers: visit the Hoover Dam and try In-N-Out’s secret menu item, The Flying Dutchman. I didn’t have time to get to the Hoover Dam, so Flying Dutchman was, I guess, a must. Being from the eastern part of the US, I’d not had a chance to try In-N-Out, and ordering off the mythical secret menu made it even more exciting.

As I approached the counter, I was actually a little nervous. Obviously, the secret menu wasn’t posted anywhere, so I started wondering if I’d been set up. Up to that point, I’d wanted to be surprised, so I actively avoided any information regarding the Flying Dutchman, no Googling, no conversations, nothing. When it was my turn, though, I couldn’t help it.

“I’d like a Flying Dutchman and a chocolate milkshake please.”

“Ok. One Flying Dutchman and one chocolate milkshake. That’ll be [amount of money I can’t remember].”

Perfect! The Flying Dutchman exists!

“Thanks. Actually, can you tell me what I just ordered?”

“Sure. The Flying Dutchman is a meat patty with cheese on it.”

“Like, just a cheeseburger?”

“No. A meat patty with cheese. No bread.”

I heard the words, but my brain couldn’t process them. There’s no way that’s right. It has to be something else, right?

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Nope.

It was a meat patty with cheese. Now, in fairness, it seemed to be extra cheese but still a meat patty with cheese.

After two months, I still can’t decide if the In-N-Out people are con artists or geniuses. Geniuses? Let me explain. Look at the picture above. Imagine someone you trusted (Lacy Robinson in my case) encouraged you to order a Flying Dutchman, and when you walk up to the counter to pick up the way-too-large-for-what-you-just-ordered red tray, this is what you see. Think about the disappointment, possibly even disgust, frustration, or agony you feel. You then walk outside because every seat in the restaurant is filled with someone eating a whole burger. You find a table, take your little plastic fork, and cut a piece of meat with cheese on it, and it actually tastes pretty good. Is that because it’s actually good or because your expectations have dropped to subterranean levels; therefore, anything that’s not disgusting is elevated to enjoyable?

There’s no way to know for sure.

If the latter is true, the fine folks at In-N-Out may, in fact, be geniuses. Let’s make it look so pitiful and sad that anything better than terrible is considered good is a bold strategy, but it clearly worked because I didn’t leave nearly as dissatisfied as I probably should have.

It’s a layover on the way to the National Funeral Directors Association International Convention and Expo where I’m speaking for the second, and surely the last, time. My topic this year is Improv for Funeral Directors. Last year’s was on humor and grief. They can’t let me keep doing this, right?

My fries just arrived, and they at least seem to be beer-battered, so that’s a plus. Now, let’s get to why, if Hollywood scripted my day, I would not be alive right now.

In Memphis, I was feeling uneasy about flying, not because I was afraid of crashing but afraid of puking which is a whole issue I won’t get into here. Waiting at the gate, the American Airlines app notified me we’d be boarding at 11:50 AM. It was 11:20. Then is was 11:45. Then it was 12:00. Then 12:10, and I was still sitting at the gate.

Finally, over the speaker, the nice lady at the door announced we’d be boarding. As I approached her to scan my boarding pass, she sounded frustrated on the phone.

“I don’t know. I just went down there, and the plane didn’t have power. Nobody even told me! I just went down there, and there was no power!”

Wait. Were we delayed because our plane, the one that was going to go up very high in the air, for a reason unknown to the professionals in charge, did not have electricity? And did she just blurt that out as we, the passengers with no control over anything once the plane got very high into the air, were being herded into the little tunnel to board the plane that didn’t have electricity? With no one there to tell me anything different, I could only assume that’s exactly what what happening. Suddenly I was a lot less concerned about puking.

(NOTE: These Dirk Nowitzki fries are pretty good. I’m glad the pizza was expensive.)

Now I’m on the plane in the front row of first class for the first time in my life. There were seats available, so I upgraded for, like, $50. I think we’d all agree I’m not normally first class material. The reason my positioning is worth mentioning is that it allowed me direct eye contact with the pilot while he welcomed us aboard. He looked to be about 20 from the hairline down. From the hairline up, he was a solid 40, so I split the difference and assumed he was 30. Trying to guess this man’s age, I missed everything he said, but then his tone changed catching my attention. He sounded wistful and sentimental in an almost jarring way.

“This will be my last flight with American Eagle Airlines before moving up to the larger American Airlines. I’ve been with this airline six years—started at 23 as a young man with a dream of moving up to my dream airline by the time I was 30, and that’s what I’m about to do.”

Two things:

First, he’s 29, so I was real close.

Second, imagine that level of foreshadowing in a movie, and tell me that plane’s not going STRAIGHT INTO THE GROUND.

I guess Randall and Doris Patrick are on the flight today celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary, and it’s the first time for both to fly on a plane, or We also have some extra precious cargo on board because little Delaney Morrison is in Dallas right now waiting for a transplant, and we’re happy to be entrusted with her new heart, or Sgt. Chadwick Tucker’s first child was born while he was deployed, and he’s with us today going home to meet his three-year-old son for the first time, were just too on-the-nose.

Thankfully, this is real life—no twists, no drama—so I got to land safely, experience a Dallas Maverick legend’s loaded cheese fries, and then head to Vegas to hang out with funeral professionals for a few days.

With five generations of funeral service lineage and nearly 20 years logged professionally, people tend to assume that I’m comfortable with Death in most, if not all, circumstances, and in a lot of situations, I’m sure I do better than most. At age 22 when I started, the idea of working so closely with something many people actively avoid was definitely odd, but after only a little while, the apprehensiveness began to disappear. We actually developed a pretty good working relationship, Death and I. I’d talk about it with my family and friends in my leisure time to the extent that now my kids are more at-ease with it than most adults. Sometimes it starts to feel like Death is more a friend than a work acquaintance, almost like a part of the family.

My wife has noted the relationship from the beginning. For most of our marriage, any time we’ve attended a visitation or funeral or memorial service, she’s stepped behind me. “You go first. You know what to do,” she’ll whisper.

The problem is, I don’t. Interacting with Death on the job is one thing, but on the outside it’s a different ballgame altogether—one I’m not very good at playing. Talking, sitting, standing, walking all become a struggle. Nerves and adrenaline and doubt take over and bring with them chaos. Nothing is natural. Nothing. You’d honestly never know that Death and I have worked side-by-side since 2004.

Sometimes I start to believe a more social meet-up won’t be so bad. I’m always wrong.

A couple of weeks ago at a memorial service, Death reminded me why we don’t hang out. The service was for a high school basketball teammate (well, he was older and played varsity, and I was JV, but I say it still counts) and brother of a good friend who was killed tragically at work—something I’d like to write more about, but I’m just not there yet.

If you’d like to read what I would say but better than I could say it, my mother wrote about him for our funeral home blog. It’s wonderful.

Obviously, Death would be there, but it would be fine, right?

Knowing that the church would be packed by service time, I arrived almost an hour early. There were already people going inside, but not in the droves that would come later which meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. I could sit anywhere. I had my pick.

The funeral director in charge was someone I’ve worked with in the past, so we talked for a moment standing in the back by the memory table containing photos and bourbon and marshmallows, none of which were for consumption.

“Did you know this guy?”

“Yeah. He’s from my hometown. We played ball together, and his little sister was one of my best friends in school.”

“Oh yeah, that makes sense. Well, I’m sorry.”

Then he got back to work, and I entered the nave as a member of the public.

With 40 minutes until service time, the crowd was still fairly small, but there was already a weird mix: people from my hometown, people I’d met since moving to Memphis, and people from my hometown who’d also moved to Memphis. Do you know what that means? No clear direction on where to sit—segments of people from different points in my life with not a lot of overlap. Also, seating is not a thing I often worry about at memorial services. My place is usually predetermined.

As people trickled in, I stood behind the crowd of sitters with my hands behind my back, looking like a funeral director, while determining my destination. To the left near the front were my high school basketball coaches and some former players I knew with exactly one empty seat next to them. On the same side in the middle was my first college roommate, a guy I’ve known for 38 of my 41 years, and his family with seats available. Three rows from the back was a friend of mine from high school and his wife who’ve lived in Memphis since graduating college, and you guessed it, seats. Then on the very back row was one of my wife’s high school dance coaches who I also served with on the Arts Commission during my civically-active days in my hometown. There were available seats near her too.

I didn’t take any of them, just stood there focusing on the crowd for no reason in particular.

10:00 came and went. Then 10:10 and 10:15. The service was set to start at 10:30, and the room was filling up quickly when something occurred to me: I wouldn’t be sitting down, not because I couldn’t but because I wouldn’t.

The funeral director in charge walked by, and I stopped him to ask a question based on my new-found clarity.

“Do you care if I stand back here with you guys, even if there’s room out there [motioning toward the crowd]? I won’t get in the way or try to work or anything.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I get it. I’m like you. I know what to do back here. I don’t know what to do out there.”

By 10:30, it was standing-room only, so I found myself with 40 to 50 close strangers in the back. To them, it looked like I arrived too late to find a seat just like they did, but the reality is, I didn’t want to sit in the mass of people, the ones who were there to celebrate the wonderful life of a wonderful person, the mourners. Wearing my suit and standing in the vestibule and picking things up that people knocked over, I didn’t have to be a mourner.

Following the service, I waited around—now free to have real-life conversations. There was the Arts Commission lady who perked up and listened proudly as I updated her on my wife’s own dance coaching accomplishments. There was my roommate who was just as upset as I was at the priest for mentioning in his homily that they (he and the family) had discussed handing out bourbon shots to the guests but decided against it. “I didn’t even know that was on the table. Now I feel like he took something away from me,” he joked, and I agreed. We would have happily ingested a memorial shot (or two) of bourbon. There was the basketball bunch with their solemn nods and greetings. We all talked for a bit, and they left.

Then a small group began to form down front where some members of the family had come back out to visit. Making my way down, I spoke briefly to the ones I could reach and made my way out the side door to the parking lot.

Once in the car, a question popped into my mind. Why did I talk so much more after the service than before? I saw a lot of the same people both times, and people were having conversations right up to 10:30. What changed?

The answer is nothing. Nothing changed. It happened the way it always does when I attend a funeral or memorial, but in those situations, I’m on the job. See, in working a service of that type, I am pleasant and personable and sociable beforehand, but I’m also focused on the service itself: making certain everything and everyone are in place and ready to start, that all parties involved know what they’re supposed to do and when, and that the attendees are seated (or at least in place) as close to service time as possible. After the service, those concerns are gone which means I’m free to console, comfort, and converse.

Essentially, I had attended the memorial service just like I would work a memorial service, with a funeral-director forcefield protecting me from discomfort and awkwardness by keeping my relationship with Death as professional as possible—because even after a couple of decades, I’m still not sure what to do when I run into Death outside of work.

The piece was Happiness by Anne T. Donahue who, coincidentally, was nice enough to not only respond when I reached out requesting permission to post it here for all of you but to respond positively! For convenience, you will find her piece below, but I encourage you to click on her name above more.

Look, I know this is my thing, and I’m supposed to publish my stuff, but the fact is, sometimes people say things better than me, and that’s ok. I’m content to defer occasionally, and this is just such an occasion.

Happiness

The moment before you need more happiness?

by Anne T. Donahue

Right now it’s unseasonably warm (we’ll worry about that later!), my allergies are raging (whatever!), I’m eating a breakfast wrap and listening to the Reality Bites soundtrack outside (I PUT TOGETHER A PATIO TABLE!) so it’s safe for me to announce: I AM HAVING A NICE TIME.

And this feeling is new for me! Not the niceness, but certainly the acknowledgement that on this beautiful morning I feel happy. Happiness, as we know, is terrifying. Since late 2019 (and for about three decades before), I assumed happiness was a feeling chased immediately by its opposite. Happiness is fleeting! It is, as Don Draper once infamously said, the feeling before you need more happiness! Anxiety has manifested in my life as the quintessential warning that SOMETHING BAD CAN ALWAYS HAPPEN. Thus, greeting happiness meant lowering the armour I’d built up for years and years and basically welcoming a tragedy.

But guess what: the tragedies happen regardless. As I’ve written about before, the universe isn’t watching the ins and outs of my life, waiting for an in to present a worst case scenario. No one is sitting on a golden throne in the sky, watching me and deciding that now is the time to really show me who’s boss. Everything is fleeting! So why depreciate happiness? There is an ordinate amount of shoes that can/will drop at any time — has white knuckling through reality stopped them from dropping and wreaking havoc on everything? It has not!

It’s a bummer to exist in the state of “Oh, I knew this would happen.” (Even though for the record I, a person who is always right about everything, did know.) And since our time here is short and certainly not guaranteed, it’s an even bigger bummer to look back on huge chunks of existence and realize that in moments of joy and niceness, I followed so many of them up with “Yeah, but shit’s probably about to get worse” only to realize in retrospect (now-ish) that I was simply having a lovely time, no footnotes or caveat in sight. I sucked the fun out of my own room, Debbie Downer-ing as a means of self-preservation.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happiness actually is and looks like lately, especially since Easter always makes me miss my Dad (a weird thing, but true!) and his birthday just passed (next year he would’ve turned 69 — nice). And I think back on those Easters of yore and I realize I wasted so much time not stopping for a single fucking second and acknowledging that I was having a nice time. I was having a nice time at family BBQs, eating inordinate amounts of ham. I was having a nice time in my springtime clothes, playing outside without a winter coat. I was having a nice time driving around, listening to music and singing my fool heart out. I was having a nice time doing nothing! Often, when I think about my most nice (ist?) times, they don’t revolve around anything outside the ordinary: in my favourite memories, I’m just living my life, stoked as hell to exist under the sun.

I know some people will categorize this revelation under the umbrella of “mindfulness” but because it seems like everybody I don’t like has an absolute boner for that word, I will avoid it at all costs. Instead, I think I’ll call it acknowledgement. The acknowledgement that I get to be here, the acknowledgement that in this moment, I’m listening to music that makes me happy and eating a wrap that comes with a hashbrown inside. (It’s revelatory!) The acknowledgement that yes, I can feel my arm burning via the UV, but honestly it’s going to snow next week so why not soak up all the vitamin D I can? (I will go buy sunscreen in a few.) I’m looking down at Barry (my robust French prince of a cat), eating grass and squinting up at me, stoked as fuck that he gets to enjoy a leafy buffet. Will he throw up in a few hours? He will! The hairballs are plentiful! But is he thinking about that? No, man! He’s just wondering why in the year of our lord 2023, I’m blaring the shit out of Lenny Kravitz. (Because he’s on the Reality Bites soundtrack, Barry. Jesus Christ.)

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It is terrifying to understand that no matter what precautions we take or how carefully we are not to get too used to feeling anything outside of pure, unadulterated dread, bad things will always happen. I hate knowing that life isn’t mission-oriented and that after a series of pitfalls and buzzkills at the hands of those spinning shells in Super Mario, I will never actually defeat the one true boss and will always have a plethora of trials and tribulations set out before me. I don’t like knowing that more people I love will die one day (I’m fun!), or that I have feelings upon feelings to sift through and always will, or that the news is a constant reminder of how scary things are in a universal sense. But I think I hate even more that when given a chance to think, “Hey — this moment is actually very okay right now!” I’m the quickest to add that it will end, things always do, so I might as well get used to misery.

I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to miss any more nothings that add up to a lifetime of something. I’m tired of walking on eggshells or chasing every positive thing with the reminder that all things end for the sole purpose of being able to say that I “knew something like this would happen.” It hasn’t helped. It hasn’t prepared me for the big stuff. Instead, it’s left me looking backwards, wondering what the secret was to my fleeting youthful happiness. Which, for the record, I’ve come to see as simply the acknowledgement that I was alive and having a good day and a good time, or that the way the sun was shining in a specific moment made me feel like it all might be okay.

Now that it’s warmer, I can hear the planes fly overhead a little more clearly, I can hear the birds singing, and I can roll my windows down to soak up the light a little more (and to inhale as much pollen as possible, evidently). And I keep thinking about a core memory: me, at my Nana and Papa’s, sometime around 1991. I’m in their backyard, watching my Grampa mow the lawn and waiting for my Nana to finish watering the garden. I’m on one of those old outdoor recliners where if you’re not careful, you’ll fall through the plastic slats. I can hear airplanes and birds and the mower, and it’s warm but not too warm, and I know we’re going to have sausages and burgers for lunch. My Nana will cut me up some cucumber which, to this day, is the best cucumber I’ve ever had. I have no idea what will follow lunch; whether I’ll nap or read a book or play with my Barbies, and it doesn’t matter. I am, in that moment, just happy to be there. Everything that means anything is so small and seemingly inconsequential, but guess what: it obviously wasn’t.

I don’t think I’ll ever lose the morbid or macabre streak that runs through me (which is fine! I do like the multitudes that I contain), nor will my anxiety ever completely disappear and leave me as plucky and happy as that wee, cucumber-loving girl. But what’s the harm of revelling in the experience of being alive? Of knowing that I get to write this piece while sitting outside, listening to the kids next door play, listening to Big Mountain (“OOH BABY I LOVE YOUR WAYYYY”), and that no other day will be like this one? That this moment is my only real guarantee? Something horrible could happen in ten minutes, but maybe it won’t. Maybe something great is heading down the pipeline. Or maybe, the Holy Grail: sameness. Simple, underrated sameness — even boredom. I love boredom! What a novelty! So if you can read this, universe: hello! I know you’re busy, so don’t worry about keeping track of what I’m doing or feeling right now. For the first time in a long time, I’m just happy to be here.

For more from Anne, visit annetdonahue.substack.com.

“5,000 Candles in the Wind” from Parks and Recreation

This is a fantastic choice as long as you’re ok that it’s all about a dead fictional Shetland pony. He truly was 5,000 candles in the wind.

“Rainbow Connection” from The Muppet Movie

The origin story I’ve heard is that Jim Henson contacted songwriter, Paul Williams, and asked him to write a song to make a frog in a swamp seem introspective. Well, he did the thing, didn’t he?

Just for fun, here’s Paul Williams performing on my favorite show from when my kids were little, Yo Gabba Gabba.

“It’s Not Easy Being Green” from Sesame Street

Let’s stick with the Muppets for a moment. If you’re questioning this one, watch Big Bird sing it at Jim Henson’s memorial service, and then we can talk.

NOTE: Frank Oz’s remarks at this same service are some of the sweetest and funniest I’ve ever heard. You should definitely look them up when you finish here.

“A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow” from A Mighty Wind

These people (Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara) and the people who wrote the song (husband and wife team, Michael McKean and Annette O’Toole) are actors, comedic and otherwise. Some people are just too talented, and this song is almost too good.

“Beautiful Ride” from Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story

Songwriters Dan Bern and Mike Viola might have written the perfect funeral song. It truly has it all (except symbolism): contentment, emotion, acceptance that life is hard but overall good, an urging for people to enjoy the small things, musical escalation, lessons learned, ghosts.

I originally planned to post the movie clip like I did for the other ones but decided not to subject anyone to potentially unwanted frontal male nudity even though it was sufficiently blurred.

To view the original, click here, or you may enjoy below.

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3rd Grade Virtual Learning Schedule: Week 3, Day 4

Only 32 weeks to go!

8:00-8:15 AM — Attendance

Check in using Zoom for attendance. Remember, the meeting ID and password can be found by logging into Smarties and clicking on the Notifications tab under Alerts found in your Smarties profile which can be accessed by clicking on your avatar and selecting My Profile.

8:15-9:00 AM — Math: Multiplying and Dividing Single Digit Numbers

Watch the video entitled “Multiplication, Division, and YOU!” There will be no link provided for this video, so you, a third-grader, will need to do a Google video search and hope for the best.

Following the video, log into Farm Numbers through Smarties and complete #4-5, #7, #18-20, #25, and #27C. This site is set to grade all problems, so it will count the ones I told you to skip wrong. Don’t worry. That will probably get fixed before it makes it in the grade book.

Once you’ve completed your work in Farm Numbers, find your Yay! Math Volume 3 (the smaller one) book and complete the “And Now This” section of Lesson 4.22. Take a photo of your work using your webcam and upload it to Swing Set. This will be difficult, since you are in third grade and only have two hands.

9:00-9:45 AM — ELA: Parts of Speech: Nouns and Verbs

Open Get Learnt and log in through Smarties. Open the folder labeled Week 4. Here you will find the assignments for Week 3. Once you’ve opened the Week 4 folder, scroll down to the “Nouns and Verbs Worksheet Instructions.” Read the instructions THOROUGHLY, and then leave Get Learnt and log in to Brain Wrinkles through Smarties. Find the “Nouns and Verbs Worksheet.” Submit the completed worksheet by exporting it as a PDF and uploading it to Swing Set. Your file name should follow this format, or you will not receive full credit: ELA_lastname.firstinitial_N_O_U_N_S_&_V_E_R_B_S_W_E_E_K_3_D_A_Y_4.pdf.

Before completing the worksheet, listen to the audio recorded grammar lesson from 1948. You will find a phonograph record of this lesson in your school supplies box.

9:45-10:00 AM — Crying Break and Snacks

10:00-10:25 AM — Recess in Your Own Yard Alone

10:25-11:10 AM — Library Time

Go find whatever books you can in your house, and write your name and date checked out in the back in ink. Just do it quietly.

11:10AM-12:10 PM — Lunch

You have extra time for lunch, so your parents can take you to get food from whichever unhealthy fast food window they have the energy to get to—even if it’s one that is known to increase the risk of cancer.

12:10-12:55 — Science: Parts of a Plant

For this lesson, you will need a pencil, your computer, a second pencil with a better eraser, your whiteboard, a permanent market, authentic pistols and stamens, threaded dowel rods of various lengths, and an amateur welder’s hood. You will find all these items in your school supplies box. Once you have all your supplies log in to Edugasm through Smarties and find your “Let’s Get Physical Science!” interactive workbook Volume 6. This is the one with the tree frogs on the cover and NOT the one with the bullfrogs. That is Volume 5.9. DO NOT CHOOSE THE WORKBOOK WITH THE BULLFROGS ON THE COVER. Complete Lessons 9.005, 9.006, 9.007, and 9.009 on the parts of a plant.

Once you have completed these lessons, take Polaroid photographs of your screen showing all three lessons, and mail them to me, your teacher. You will find my address in the Contacts tab under “Cool Teachers” in Smarties.

12:55-1:25 PM — Music

Listen to your father’s jazz records. We will discuss later in the week.

1:25-2:10 PM — Spelling

Today is our weekly spelling test. First, complete the study exercises on Eduholics in Smarties. Then log in to Quiz Bitch using your Smarties credentials. Once you’ve logged in, click on Spelling Bs and use the code 8883029859903778390587392028478 to access your quiz. Each question is timed with an invisible timer, and all timers are different, so there is no way to know how much time you'll have for each question.

PARENTS: Be on the lookout for some resources I will be sending out in the future. There are so many great online learning tools, so later in the week I will be sending out login instructions for Eduductive, Timely Tomes, Virtual Pulley, Edulicious, Geared Up!, Book Learnin’, Velocitastic, EduFunk, Scholastitude, Digicabulary, Scribdibulous, Quandary, Query, Edutopsy, Fire Pole, Edudelic, Tyrants Read to Kids, Experimentalism, Educidious, Grammarican Dream, Educide, and George Clinton’s Book Club. All of these will be available through Smarties.

Early that first semester David called to invite me to J&J’s Market & Cafe, a coffee shop where people could play the cool, hip acoustic guitars they’d strategically strewn throughout and play any board game imaginable. The reason for the outing that night? To challenge Amanda and three of her friends, including her roommate who was very nice but whose name I can’t remember, to a friendly game of Trivial Pursuit. We were just playing for fun, and it wasn’t meant to be super competitive, so I don’t want to dwell on this, but we destroyed them. I’ve heard one of them, to this day, has to cut pies into either four or eight slices because six will lead to flashbacks of that night.

After the slaughter, two of the girls returned to Belmont in shame, I assume, while the rest of us headed to Vandy to hang out in the boys’ apartment for a little while. Now, people of a certain age group from my hometown have this thing where, when we get together, we tend to dominate conversations with stories of Savannah, Tennessee, our small river town that is apparently intriguing and entertaining to outsiders. I’ve been told it happened at Middle Tennessee State University and the University of Tennessee. It happened when I attended the University of Memphis my freshman year and throughout my time at my alma mater, Freed-Hardeman University. And it happened that night on the campus of Vanderbilt. We all sat around talking about the weird things we did for fun in high school. When you live in a town with nothing fun, you’re forced to create your own, and we were the best I know at doing that. As the night continued the lone non-Savannah person, [Roommate], was glued to the stories of our yelling at other people’s girlfriends while blasting 8-track tapes of Wings and The Doobie Brothers from the funeral home’s 1979 Oldsmobile, Christains in Action (re-read that one because you probably missed it), the 10^th-grade Science Honorarium trip Nate and I still owed $6.00 for despite having already graduated, the explicit pages my first ever girlfriend (one week, 5^th grade, dumped me on my kitchen phone for a 4^th-grader) slipped into our freshman yearbook right before it was sent off for publishing, nearly getting the cops called on us and/or shot to death by the staff of Eddie’s Superfoods, including my now wife, after an English club Halloween party, all of which I’m sure I will write about eventually.

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Then it got late enough that I needed to leave, so I could be well-rested when I looked at photographs of restricted cervical embalmings and various sutures the next day. David offered to walk me out since it was my first time on campus. I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. Once we were outside, he turned serious.

“So, what do you think about [Roommate]?”

That seemed odd, but I answered anyway.

“She seems nice. Why?”

“Would you ever want to, maybe, go on a date with her or anything?”

Now, I was currently dating my then girlfriend, now wife, so that’s exactly what I responded with.

“Well, no. I’m dating Natalie.”

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t know how that was going, so I just thought I’d ask.”

I feel like he told me she had asked about me, but it could also have been that he and Amanda just wanted to try to fix her up with someone, and there I was. I honestly can’t remember, but I want to make something clear in case she did ask: There are no more than a handful of times that I could write about where a girl was interested enough in me to consider going on a date, and “handful” is probably being generous, so please don’t think I’m trying to paint myself as some Saved by the Bell-era Mark-Paul Gosselaar here. I was not that.

The next time I called my then girlfriend, now wife, I told her the story of [Roommate] because I thought it was funny, and, also, I was apparently an idiot. She did not think it was funny and wasn’t at all happy with David and Amanda. Eventually she understood that they weren’t aware of the seriousness of our relationship given the multiple long-distance scenarios of the past couple of years, and everything was fine.

Skip ahead to the end of the semester. My then girlfriend, now wife, plans a trip to Nashville for the weekend, and, without knowing about that, David calls again.

“Hey, do you remember Amanda’s roommate, [Roommate]?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, it’s her birthday this weekend, and we’re all going to eat and then play laser tag, and she wanted to know if you’d want to go.”

“Actually, Natalie’s coming up this weekend, so if it’s cool for her to come too, I can see if she wants to.”

David said that was fine without actually asking anyone, and I checked with my then girlfriend, now wife, Natalie, who said she thought laser tag sounded fun. We couldn’t do dinner with them because we’d already decided to eat at Big River Restaurant and Brewery on 2^nd, but we planned to meet them at the laser tag place. The others were having celebratory dessert at fill-in-the-blank-restaurant downtown when we finished our meal, so we met them there instead to join in the festivities. After the greetings and hugs and it’s-so-good-to-see-yous, Amanda introduced Natalie to [Roommate]—a perfectly civil exchange that should in no way serve as any kind of foreshadowing.

We paid our money, vested up, listened to the rules, and stood at the door of the blacklit ghost town that awaited. I asked Natalie if she was good at laser tag. She’d never played before so probably not.

The doors opened, and we all jogged in—not running because that was against those rules—and began simulatedly shooting one another. I don’t remember who won that night, but I remember who lost: [Roommate]. In a close second-to-last came Natalie. [Roommate] was not happy. Natalie was ecstatic.

When we got in the car, I asked my then girlfriend, now wife, if she had fun.

“Yeah I did! I beat that [Roommate] girl. That’s all I wanted to do.”

“That was it? Why?”

“She flirted with you that night. I wasn’t letting her beat me.”

“Really?”

What followed was the account of a perfectly reasonable young woman, one studying to someday educate children, so determined to defeat another young woman in laser tag that she followed her around for the entirety of our time inside the neon-marked course. She would shoot [Roommate]. [Roommate]’s vest would flash, and her gun would disable. Once [Roommate]’s equipment reset, *pew*! Another hit, vest flashing and gun disabling. [Roommate] barely got any shots off. The only chance she had was when Natalie was hit. As soon as she could shoot again, though, [Roommate] would get it. Every time.

While writing this, I’ve asked my now wife, then girlfriend, to help with some of the details from that night nearly 21 years ago. When I got to this part, she buried her head in her hands laughing.

“I forgot I ruined that poor girl’s birthday.”

She did ruin that girl’s birthday, but she did it in the name of love which is the noblest of causes.

Updates

This Thursday I’ll be discussing Grief, Humor, and Funeral Directors with the nice people at Cadence.

Here’s an Old Piece of Mine That I Like

One of my favorite titles I ever developed was Baskets, Ranked, and, with the help of Marissa Maciel’s fantastic illustrating, we made it happen. Originally published by The Weekly Humorist.

Here’s a Piece Someone Else Wrote That I Like

This is a piece from Julia Steffen and is illustrated by her husband, Jim, formerly of down-the-road-from-me, but now they’ve moved. Julia has been a huge help and encouragement to me in my writing (as she has been for a ton of others, honestly). This is Limited-Edition 2020 Cream-Egg Fillings. Originally published by The New Yorker.

There’s something new, and I want to tell you about it before anyone else (besides the people who have read any of my social media posts about it already). It’s called…

It’s exactly what it sounds like: jokes about things that happened long enough ago that I shouldn’t even be thinking about them much less using them as inspiration for new material.

Please take a look and subscribe if you’d like to receive outdated dumb jokes in your email occasionally.

Happy weekend!

(Happy weekend? What?)

My parents and I planned to visit Nashville to find where I would live for my time there, but, every time we would try, something would happen to prevent us until finally they decided that, since the school owned some apartments there on the property, I could just live in one of those…sight-unseen.

On move-in day, the excitement of that first view of downtown Nashville, TN quickly died upon exiting the interstate. Suddenly the buildings were old and run-down, and everyone looked mad at me. It was the kind of area people told you to avoid, and they meant it, and they were right to mean it. It was genuinely dangerous. Thankfully, the school had a chain-link fence and a past-his-prime security guard with dyed auburn hair to keep us safe.

Inside the apartment were the whitest walls you’ve ever seen—like an uncomfortable, trying-to-hide-something white—but somehow still dirty-looking and some late 70s carpet that had most assuredly seen some questionable things in its lifetime. There was a partition to the left of the entrance, the opening of which led to the bedroom with a bathroom on the right (cue CCR) and a little closet. The layout was fine, but the quality and surroundings made everything so much worse.

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As my new reality sank in, we began unloading my possessions: my terrible couch, my unreasonably heavy, early-2000s TV, my clothes, my Geroge Foreman Grill™, the essentials. I can’t remember if the bed was mine or if it came with the apartment which is a level of discomfort that I didn’t expect to be feeling twenty-one years later.

While we were attempting to lift something heavy, Clint appeared from the corner apartment two doors down. Clint’s parents had died in a car accident, and the funeral director was so helpful that Clint decided that’s what he needed to do with his life and quickly enrolled in mortuary school. Unfortunately, a desire to help people isn’t always enough to push someone through embalmings and autopsies and head-buildings, and, sadly, that would be the case with him.

Clint was 6’3” and skinny but farm strong. He wore a white t-shirt, a dirty baseball cap with some miscellaneous farming brand logo on it, faded jeans that were tighter than I would have worn, and boots, and, as he made clear in is deep and very southern voice, he was there to help. Soon, with Clint’s assistance, everything was inside. Sitting in my new, stark white living room, probably drinking lemonade, the five of us discussed what mortuary college and living in Nashville would be like. Clint was from Tullahoma, TN, a place a little larger than my hometown but with a similar small-town vibe, so he was excited to spend some time in the big city.

After some organizing, my family and girlfriend, now wife, left. She told me later that she just sat in the backseat and cried on the way home, mostly because she was convinced I would be murdered in that apartment. She obviously didn’t see the chain-link fence. To ease your minds, I was not murdered.

Anyway, that night I found myself in a strange place completely alone for the first time in my life. All I knew about driving in Nashville was that downtown was to the left, and I wasn’t ready to find out any more yet, so I put on my green striped pajama pants and watched my unreasonably heavy, early-2000s TV.

Around 7:00 that evening, I figured it was time to eat, so I plugged in my Geroge Foreman Grill™. Once it was good and hot I slapped an unseasoned pork chop on there and closed the grill. Seasoning was foreign to me since I’d never cooked a thing in my life. Then, as I was boiling water for my macaroni and powdered cheese mix, a knock at my door. Through the peephole I could see a convex Clint wearing a cowboy hat, unbuttoned western shirt with a white t-shirt under it tucked into darker tight jeans, and his nice boots. I opened the door because he knew what my car looked like, so I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t home.

“Hey, man. You wanna go out and explore the town?”

“I actually just started cooking a pork chop.”

Clint looked like I ruined his birthday by stealing his fiancé. His head dropped, and there was silence. Then I heard myself.

“I’ve got an extra one if you want it.”

“Sure.”

He walked over to my terrible couch and sat down while I put a second unseasoned pork chop on my grill that could also be a panini press. After a few minutes (because they cook both sides of the meat simultaneously), we sat at the tiny table in the narrowest kitchen in the world and quietly ate bland white meat and cheap mac and cheese, Clint in his Downtown-Nashville best and me looking ready to eat raw cookie dough and watch Dumb and Dumber on USA.

When we finished eating, Clint thanked me and went back to his corner apartment. I watched more TV and then went to sleep.

Ultimately, Clint wasn’t meant for mortuary college. By late April, he was done. I think building the head pushed him over the edge because when we arrived for grading the day the heads were due, there sat Clint’s, twice the size of ours with clownish makeup, giant eyes, cartoonish lips, and tiny mortuary wax feet attached at the base of the wig stand neck. But where was Clint? He had cleaned out his apartment the night before and disappeared, I imagine, back to life in Tullahoma.

Updates

On March 30 I’ll be discussing Grief, Humor, and Funeral Directors with the nice people at Cadence.

Here’s an Old Piece of Mine That I Like

Here is I Run Social Media for Your Local Craft Distillery, and I Can Photograph Bottles from Every Angle originally published by Points in Case.

Here’s a Piece Someone Else Wrote That I Like

Please ready and enjoy I Misplaced My Phone for Forty-Five Minutes, and Now I’m a Mindfulness Expert by Holly Theisen-Jones published by McSweeney’s.

The head I built currently sits in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house where it’s been since its completion 2002. It could legally drink this year, but, as I’ll explain later, it doesn’t have a tongue. My wife hates that head—absolutely cannot stand to be in the same room with it. She says it’s creepy, and, honestly, that does make sense because it’s actually her head.  Now imagine this scene. I’ve been dating this girl for a little over two years. I go home to see her one weekend and ask if I can photograph her. Then, once she agrees, I tell her I need closeups of her face from various angles, and she needs to keep her eyes closed for all of them, so I can recreate her head for my Restorative Art class. We weren’t even engaged at that point. She agreed to marry me after that!

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Look, I know it was weird, but if I was going to spend hours looking at pictures of someone, I wanted it to be someone I enjoyed looking at. Plus, my plan all along was to keep the thing. In my not-fully-formed, 19-year-old, inexperienced-with-the-ladies brain it was kind of a sweet gesture. Some people use paint and canvas to immortalize the women they love. Some chisel stone. I employed mortuary wax and makeup. Unfortunately, I didn’t know at the time that makeup starts turning white after a while and that the wax would crack as it dried. These days it slightly resembles my wife if she was a sophomore in college and had mold and cracks all over her face.

To complete the assignment, each student was provided a head-shaped, faceless, Styrofoam™ wig stand as a foundation and then would form mortuary wax over it until there was a face. Then we would cosmetize that face to make it look as real as possible. The point was to show proficiency in creating the correct skin texture and constructing ears, noses, mouths, and eyes, as well as displaying a basic knowledge of facial proportions. Again, the typical face is five eyes wide. Remember?

 A friend from high school attending another college in Nashville (where my school was) at the time, when I told him what I was doing, asked, “Does this head involve a tongue?” When I confusedly told him it did not, he replied, “So there’s no possibility it can speak. That’s good. What if right when you finished, its eyes popped open, and it said, ‘Hello, Joseph!’?”

It can’t speak. At least it never has.

It took hours upon hours for us nonvisual-artist types to get literally any feature to look right. One afternoon I worked for two solid hours on the nose, and, let me tell you, it was perfect. My embalming instructor walked over and leaned down to observe my progress eye to eye. Comparing it to the photos, still stooped, he turned to me and said, “Nice job,” and then flattened the nose with his index finger, laughed, and walked away. I’m pretty sure I called him some things I shouldn’t have, and I’m pretty sure he heard them all, and I’m pretty sure I’m glad he did.

Eventually, though, it was finished and looked enough like my then girlfriend, now wife, that you could at least tell what I was going for. When I put the auburn wig and hand-modified mock turtleneck sweater dickey (I cut up a mock turtleneck sweater) on then it looked slightly more like her. It wasn’t the best, but it passed.

I’ve rarely had to use those restorative skills in my career, which is nice considering what it means has happened when you do have to use them. Even now, though, if I’m ever in a situation where I encounter Play-Doh or Silly Puddy or modelling clay, odds are I’m going to start checking out people’s ears and seeing how close I can get to replicating them.

Updates

Last Wishes: Healing Through Laughter - I recently appeared in an Introduction to the Death Talk with Gabi Dias on Instagram Live discussing last wishes and the relationship between death and humor.

I’ve got another couple of nice announcements coming soon but not quite yet, so stick around to find out!

Here’s an Old Piece of Mine That I Like

I am the Suburban Woman Who Ordered on the Starbucks App, and You are All Beneath Me! published by Slackjaw.

Here’s a Piece Someone Else Wrote That I Like

This is simply one of my favorite humor pieces, and there’s no more explanation required.

R U Down 2 Klown? by Joel Kassack and published by McSweeney’s.

Now here’s what’s been happening over the past year or so:

Molding Minds and Changing Lives

Well, maybe.

Right after I posted my old Second City Network Christmas piece in December 2021, I officially became a remote adjunct instructor at the Dallas Institute of Funeral Service. Here’s what’s great about that: I love it, and I get to talk about funeral service a lot which I enjoy more than I probably should. Here’s what’s not great about that: It took so much of my time to figure out how to set up my courses and actually teach them that I could not keep up Mortified or its accompanying podcast. Sorry about that.

(NOTE: With teaching bringing back so many school memories—crazy things like learning how to embalm using the popliteal artery if you can even imagine!—the next few posts will be mortuary-college-themed and will include stories of my own personal experience as well as legends I have heard from folks before my time.)

The TFDA Comes a-Callin’

In June of 2022 my family and I attended the Tennessee Funeral Directors Association annual convention. As a child, because the funeral directors convention fell around the same time each year, I would regularly celebrate my birthday there which I’m seeing now is not a normal sentence for anyone to type. When I turned 13, for instance, the dadgum Forester Sisters, sang “Happy Birthday” to me at Tuesday’s Grand Banquet in front of everyone, so eat that all you Forester-Heads out there.

Anyway, on Monday of last year’s convention, I turned 40 years old. Now listen, I’ve been around funeral stuff my entire life, so I’m accustom to a lot of things that maybe most people aren’t. Not a lot creeps me out, but even with that it’s not lost on me how straight-up weird it was to celebrate my 40th surrounded by funeral professionals and hearses and caskets and embalming instruments and chemicals.

The big birthday isn’t why I’m mentioning this; though, I will accept monetary gifts if anyone wants to send them. I’m not proud. No, I bring it up because on that very birthday I was appointed to represent West Tennessee on the TFDA Board of Directors. I don’t have a ton of bucket list items outside of maybe being the first ever amateur host of Saturday Night Live (Lorne? I’ve got characters), but this position serves as the first step to checking off one of the few I do have.

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Takin’ This Show on the Road!

Speaking of funeral directors conventions, in October we travelled to Baltimore to eat seafood, do nerdy English-major stuff, apparently look at Old Bay Seasoning apparel, and for me to speak to funeral professionals from all over North America and Europe at the National Funeral Directors Association’s International Convention and Expo on the topic of Grief, Humor, and Healing. (If anyone would like to hear that or other presentations I’m available both virtually and in-person, just ask, and let’s figure something out.)

It was a simultaneously terrifying and joyous experience. I had the president of the National Association of Funeral Directors, a Canadian who “whoooooped” loudly when I mentioned the Kids in the Hall, and a couple of nice ladies from the west coast who specialize in human composting (yeah, you read that right) attend my session and who seemed to enjoy it. I’d love to present at this year’s convention in Vegas. I’ve got some ideas. Fingers crossed!

A random attendee totally enthralled by THE PEOPLE WHO IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWED ME BECAUSE NO ONE TOOK ANY PICTURES DURING MY SESSION. Anyway, imagine she’s watching my presentation and is very much engaged because she totally would have been.

Hoosiers

In January of this year I appeared on Undertaking: The Podcast where I discussed funeral service, comedy, joke obituaries (jokebituaries?), and all kinds of things with two funeral directors from Indiana. Also, it just occurred to me that I did not ask them if they know Larry Bird. Oh, well. You can listen to that particular episode below.

Here’s an Old Piece of Mine That I Like

People You Really Don’t Want to Hear Say, “I’m Not a Magician” originally published by The Weekly Humorist.

Here’s a Piece Someone Else Wrote That I Like

Audrey Burges (who has a new book out that you should definitely go buy, like, now!) is a friend of mine and one of the earliest, most ardent supporters of Mortified. She is also a wonderfully talented humor writer.

Signs That You’re Ready to Wear Taupe published by McSweeney’s.

Happy Holidays from me, Joseph Thomas!

I'll never forget the day I walked up on those kids condescendingly calling that snowman by my name. I'd just left from giving the eulogy at a funeral for a young father who died of tuberculosis, leaving behind a wife and four small children. I didn't think my day could get any worse. I was wrong.

“Let’s pretend he is Parson Brown,” they said. “He’ll ask us if we’re married. What a creep! We’re just kids.” (I always ask if they’re married as a joke, like asking a four-year-old if he’s in college. I’m obviously kidding, but one mother hears you, and suddenly you’re labeled a perv.) Then they placed a tiny carrot below the charcoal buttons on the snowman and laughed hysterically. What’s worse, when they saw me, instead of feeling bad or running off, they just pointed and laughed even harder.

Now, I know I’m not the most attractive guy. I never have been. High school was hell for me. I’m pale and oddly-shaped—dumpy, even—but to build a snowman, and a sloppy one at that, just to name it after me is taking it too far. It’s not necessary. I would never have done that as a child, especially to a man of the cloth. There’s no respect in this world anymore. My father was a parson too, and he never had to deal with anything like this. And guess what? There are plenty of successful, happy, odd-looking people out there. You don’t hear people talking about Steve Buscemi or Larry Bird like that. I guess if I could act or play ball, it would be different. But no—I just pray and console the hurting and lonely and help the poor like some kind of loser.

By the way, thanks for bringing the meadow back up, too. I loved that meadow. It was my quiet place—the place where I would pray and reflect—but one day, someone noticed me out there eating my lunch and assumed I was watching the students at the girls' school next door and told my wife. That's when she left, so using that same meadow isn't just “hurtful.” It's in poor taste. What if, once a year, I brought up that thing that ruined your marriage? How would you like that? What if I wrote a Christmas carol about that time you had some drinks at your wife’s birthday party and got a little handsy with her younger sister? Not so fun now, is it?

Look, I know it’s Christmas, and everyone’s all cheery and jubilant and carefree, but some of us have pretty terrible memories about this time of year. I wish you people would think about that when you’re singing this mess. While we’re at it, let’s just stop with “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” okay? That family is really hurting.

Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in 2022!

Check out more of my writing at josephthomascomedy.com!

In this episode, I talk with writer, Mike Sacks (@michaelbsacks), about the South, decency in comedy, remembering you’re a person, and more!

For more listening and subscribing options visit mortifiedconversations.com!

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In this episode, I talk with sports journalist and radio host, Geoff Calkins, about living in Memphis, finding your voice as a writer, losing a parent, and more!

For more listening and subscribing options visit mortifiedconversations.com!

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This is a piece I wrote for my first ever writing course outside of English majordom way back in 2016—Writing Satire for the Internet Level 1 at the Second City Training Center—and is also my first funeral-related humor piece. It originally appeared on the Medium humor publication, How Pants Work, and you can find it here. Please enjoy You’re Invited to Rhonda’s Bereavement Party! It’s one of my favorites!

Hey, Girls!

As you all know, Rhonda’s husband Gary passed away yesterday after a long, hard-fought battle with pancreatic cancer, so we’re putting together a little girls’ night on Friday. This is Rhonda’s first night of freedom, so get ready to get turnt!

Here’s how it’s going down:

5:30 PM

Rhonda’s had a tough time, so we’ll start off kinda slow. We’ll meet at her house for a period of comforting silence. We’ll hug and cry. We’ll take as much time as Rhonda needs. Then we’re heading to the Embassy Suites for free cocktails at 5:45!

7:30 PM

After the Embassy Suites, we’ll get some fresh air (we’ll need it!) and walk down to Shooters just like when we were in college — before people died. They’ve still got the best mojitos in town. Trust me. We’ll feel out the situation, but I’m thinking three hours should do it!

10:30 PM

I’ve reserved us a party bike for two hours from Spin-N-Tonic with an “In Loving Memory of Gary Huggins 1972–2017” banner on the back. Melanie’s bringing a tiara, and Charla’s made a sash that says “widow” in gold glitter! We get to select our own music, so be thinking about what you want to hear. I’ve got dibs on I’m So Fancy and Worth It, so back off. Those are my JAMS!

Also, I put in a request for Derek. He’s the best.

12:30 AM

We’ll take an Uber down to Riverside Park for a time of prayer and reflection — remembering what the night is truly for. I need someone to bring an unlit candle if you’ve got one. If not, no biggie.

12:45 AM

There’s a bubble party in the street outside Club 85904! And up in all those bubbles, I imagine somebody’ll be getting a little handsy in a public place with some strange men (hint: me)!

3:00 AM

After we change clothes, we’ll head to Rachel and Na-Na’s Discotech (where Sears used to be). Our mission will be to find Rhonda some male accompaniment for our time there! Just because she’s grieving doesn’t mean she can’t have a little fun, if you know what I mean! And trust me, there will be plenty of dudes to choose from. There always are, and 3–4 AM is the optimum time. There may be a line, so I’ll have some berry vodka in my purse, and Jackie is bringing a portable speaker so we can listen to You Raise Me Up and Wind Beneath My Wings if we have to wait.

6:00 AM

We’ll go back to Rhonda’s place to get a little rest. She’s cool with it, she said. And Gary’s hospital bed is still there, so we should all have a place to sleep. Those things are roo-my!

10:00 AM

We are celebrating Gary’s life at 11:00 at Christ Presbyterian Church, but we’ll need to get there early to set up for the flash mob. Hope you’ve all been working on your Whip and Nae Nae. It’ll be so funny! Rhonda will freak! It’s what Gary would have wanted.

IMPORTANT REMINDER

Remember, for gifts Rhonda is registered at Flowers by Alison, Marshall-Hilburn Funeral Home, and Target.

Also, everyone bring $40 to reimburse me for the mantle clock urn.

See y’all then!

Deborah

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In this episode, I talk with reconstructive embalming and mortuary restorative art expert, Dominick Astorino, about mortuary college, the newest generation of embalmers, carrying a pocket watch in elementary school, and more!

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In a rural community south of town there are a whole bunch of Heberts. Now, if you’re at all familiar with Cajun last names, you probably read that AY-behr. Where I’m from, though, it’s not one bit Cajun, which means the name is pronounced HEE-bert. The Hebert men all look like if Marty Feldman had grown up in north Alabama, and they all go by their last name. For their entire lives they’re not Johns or Dannys or Tims. They’re Hebert—all of them. It’s been that way for decades. Nearly 40 years ago, a young funeral director accompanied an older funeral director on a home removal, and, when he asked who they were picking up, all he got was, “Hebert.” And it wasn’t a new concept then.

The Hebert of this story is named Donnie, but, again, he goes by Hebert. The thing to know about Hebert, the thing we all knew, is that if there was a church funeral around the state line, he was going to be there, and he was going to find a way to help. He’s never worked in a funeral home but has always been a sort of honorary funeral director who was so committed to his role that my perfectionist grandfather would tell other funeral directors not to worry about arriving in time to begin services because, “Hebert will be there to help get things started.”

That’s Hebert.

Hebert Nearly Died

Pine Grove Cemetery sits comfortably in a sharp curve on Highway 31, a cemetery that predates cars and therefore also predates parking. It’s affiliated with the Pine Grove Freewill Baptist Church which sits on the other side of the highway—across the curve—and that’s where the parking is. When burying at Pine Grove Cemetery, the family has to get Grandma with her bad foot and Uncle Bud with his walker and whoever else with their whatever else across that road from the church to the cemetery, and it’s a nightmare.

Normally, a funeral director would stand just south of the curve and a grave crew member just north to stop traffic, but this time Hebert was there, and he wasn’t having it. He wanted traffic duty. Quickly, he ran to his truck and fished out an orange, reflective vest that he apparently carries with him at all times, stood smack in the middle of the sharp curve, touched his elbow to his waist, and moved his hand up and then down at the wrist in a stop right here motion. The first car approached from the south and flew past Hebert who jumped off the center line barely avoiding serious injury. He glared at the car, gathered himself, and returned to his post with his weird little hand motion. The next car came from the north at full speed and at the last second swerved halfway onto the shoulder to miss Hebert who decided this time to stand his ground. The vest worked. After a few more near misses, Hebert finally stopped a car, and the family began to cross. Thankfully, the larger numbers of people and the already stopped vehicles were easier for oncoming motorists to see. The people crossed safely, and Hebert survived.

Hebert and the Flower Truck

When Hebert’s very own mother died, he had one request for her funeral: that he ride with Kevin in the flower truck.

Quick Lesson: Immediately following funeral services, at least in my part of the world, funeral directors and staff hustle to load the flowers into a van or truck or something large enough to haul them to the cemetery. They do this quickly so that when the deceased and family arrive everything looks nice and put together—like it’s been that way the whole time. Driving the flower truck is fun because you have an excuse to drive fast.

Once Mama Hebert’s service ended, Kevin loaded the flowers and ran out front to get Hebert for his ride. The problem was, Hebert wasn’t there. Kevin walked around the entire outside of the church. No Hebert. He checked the basement where the food was. No Hebert. He checked the bathrooms. Nothing. Finally, knowing he had to go, Kevin gave up and went back to the flower truck continually aware of his surroundings in case Hebert appeared. After one last look around, and no sign of Hebert, Kevin opened the driver side door, placed one foot inside, and found himself staring eye to eye with a man. There sat Hebert.

“What the hell are you running around for, son? Get in. We gotta go.”

Stunned, Kevin slowly climbed into the passenger seat, and Hebert drove his mother’s flowers to the cemetery, and he got to drive them fast.

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Hebert’s in the Grave

Hebert was just as determined to help out at burials. He would load cemetery equipment and place flowers on graves, and he wouldn’t leave until the work was done.

During one particular burial, a steel cable from the lowering device (the contraption that gently places the casket and vault into the grave) got stuck underneath the burial vault. Now this vault was solid concrete, so, as you can imagine, the cable wouldn’t budge. Before anyone could do anything about it, Hebert was in the grave on top of the vault lid yanking on the cable with his bare hands.

“Hebert, your wife’ll be mad at you for getting your suit all dirty like that,” joked Gerald with the others laughing behind him.

Hebert stopped working the cable for a moment and looked Gerald and the others right in the eyes from below ground level and spoke in a deathly serious tone.

“That’s what they make soap and water for, boys.”

Hebert at My Grandfather’s Funeral

There were a lot of people at my grandfather’s funeral. He’d been the face of the funeral home for nearly fifty years, and, even though he was bedridden for six years before his death, people still viewed him as just that. Besides the locals, there were a decent number of funeral professionals from around the country in attendance. Anticipating a large undertaker representation, we had little black ribbons made and a special seating section reserved just for them. He had given his life to that profession, and we wanted to honor that by honoring those who were doing the same.

As we stood by the casket playing the role of family instead of funeral directors just prior to the service, Hebert slipped through one of the side doors in the back of the sanctuary. This church was in town, and Hebert didn’t usually attend church funerals in town, so the confidence wasn’t as high as usual. As Hebert searched for a seat, my dad and I looked at each other then shifted our eyes to my mother. She had already spotted Hebert. Then we asked her brother, since it was their father who’d died, if he would be ok giving him a black ribbon and seating him in the funeral service section. He didn’t know Hebert, but he agreed. I told you earlier: honorary funeral director. Hebert got his ribbon and sat down with the folks who got paid for working funerals. He worked all of his for free.

Following the burial, the church had a meal for the family and friends where we ate casseroles and talked and laughed and visited with folks we hadn’t seen in so long. Afterward we were doing what families do at church funeral meals—delaying the part where we would actually have to start processing what had happened. The church members had started cleaning up. Just then, Hebert entered the large fellowship hall and walked straight to my mother.

“Sis,”

He always called her Sis.

“Sis, I just want you to know I stayed at that graveyard to make sure everything was just right for your daddy. Everything went good, and the flowers are all placed nice.”

With some of the best funeral directors in the nation in attendance that day, Donnie Hebert, the volunteer, was the one who stayed behind to help load equipment and place flowers on my grandfather’s grave. He made sure everything was exactly right, and he didn’t leave until the work was done.

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In this episode I got to talk with actor, writer, and real-life standup comedian, Kurt Braunohler, about obsessive attention to detail, views of eternal life, final goodbyes, and a lot more!

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