The Funeral Tent Fell On Us When the Wind and the Dead Whipped Up

Photo: Tim Barrus

The wind pushed the tent down, and those of us at the funeral, all Billy Ray’s friends and tricks (I wonder who will miss him most) attending the Billy Ray funeral, were pushed along with my cheap tent stakes right into the grave hole (dirt mainly)with Billy Ray in his box. Never said a word. And there we all were.

Momentarily.

I make a point of smoking weed at all my funerals. I hand out joints to everyone. I have been known to pass out a few bottles of Southern Comfort as well. But not to babies. Well, maybe to a few babies, but only to shut them up.

Why would you bring a baby to a funeral and then the wind whipped up and there went baby like the rest of us.

The South is the Great American Mudhole.

I am taking a stand.

No more funerals. I can stay home, smoke weed, drink rum, jack off, you name it, and no wind will knock the tent down and we all fall into the graveyard stew Gram made last year before she took off for Florida.

I have taken off for Florida a few times myself. Then, Hurricane Gazeldapussy, a category fucking five, arrives, and why is every storm we have now a category fucking five.

The earth is heating up, you southern fools, run for your lives.

Now put your right foot in

Your right foot out

Right foot in

Then you shake it all about

And then you do the hokey pokey

Turn yourself around

That’s what it’s all about

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