Lotta death in the news lately, although the upside is that it's unlikely the next Pope will be in place for 25 years, necessitating 10 days of solid media coverage and more ink devoted to his funeral than to anything he did while alive.
In the spirit of the cruel fate that awaits us all, I've decided to share some of my favorite (real and fictional) obituaries and eulogies with you. You're welcome. And don't fear the reaper.
William Jennings Bryan by H.L. Mencken:
This talk of sincerity, I confess, fatigues me. If the fellow was sincere, then so was P.T. Barnum. The word is disgraced and degraded by such uses. He was, in fact, a charlatan, a mountebank, a zany without any shame or dignity. What animated him from end to end of his grotesque career was simply ambition--the ambition of a common man to get his hand upon the collar of his superiors, or, failing that, to get his thumb into their eyes. He was born with a roaring voice, and it had the trick of inflaming half-wits against their betters, that he himself might shine.
Aunt Edna by Clark W. Griswald:
O God, ease our suffering in this, our moment of great despair. Yea, admit this kind and decent woman into thy arms of thine heavenly area, up there. And Moab, he lay us upon the band of the Canaanites, and yea, though the Hindus speak of karma, I implore you: give her a break.
Archie Bennitz by Archie Bennitz:
Archie was an avid fan of watching hockey. He asked that Mr. Bettman and Goodenow know that they are "skunks" for denying him the pleasure of watching the NHL on TV this year. he also asked that Mr. Bettman steps aside and gives Wayne Gretzky the job that rightfully belongs to him.
Hand Job by the Marines of 1st Platoon:
T.H.E. Rock: You're going home now.
Crazy Earl: Semper fi.
Donlon: We're mean Marines, sir.
Eightball: Go easy, bro.
Rafterman: At least he died for a good cause.
Animal Mother: What cause was that?
Rafterman: Freedom?
Animal Mother: Flush out your headgear, new guy. You think we waste gooks for freedom? This is a slaughter. If I'm gonna get my balls blown off for a word, my word is poontang.
Cowboy: Tough break for Hand Job. He was all set to get shipped out on a medical.
Joker: What was the matter with him?
Cowboy: He was jerkin' off ten times a day.
Eightball: No shit. At least ten times a day.
Cowboy: Last week he was sent down to Da Nang to see the Navy head shrinker, and the crazy fucker starts jerking off in the waiting room. Instant Section Eight. He was just waiting for his papers to clear division.
Jim Varney by The Thing that Walks Like A Man:
What was the nature of the phantasmagorical Vern? Perhaps He was a manifestation of Ernest's own fears and uncertainties made flesh in this manic, soul-crushing world, or the fevered imaginings of a tormented psyche resulting from the production of such films as "Ernest in the Army," "Ernest Goes to Africa" (aka "Ernest vs the Voodo King") and "Slam Dunk Ernest." On a more spiritual note, perhaps Vernon was a mere allegory for the faceless horde that has become humanity as we know it. After all, who actually sees--really sees--their neighbors in this terrifying age of barren spirituality and rampant technology? Aren't we all just invisible shades to our fellow man?
Edgar Allen Poe by Rufus Griswold:
Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy--his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere--had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious--bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers.
Mr. Kelly: My son's a homosexual, and I love him. I love my dead gay son.
J.D.: Wonder how he'd react if his son had a limp wrist with a pulse.
Richard Nixon by Hunter S. Thompson:
Let there be no mistake in the history books about that. Richard Nixon was an evil man--evil in a way that only those who believe in the physical reality of the Devil can understand it. He was utterly without ethics or morals or any bedrock sense of decency. Nobody trusted him--except maybe the Stalinist Chinese, and honest historians will remember him mainly as a rat who kept scrambling to get back on the ship.
sorry, that should all have been bolded. Damn freeloading bold tags.
I forget exactly how it goes (yeah, I suppose being able to write it down is kind of the point of this post - sorry) but Stewie's rememberance of Brian's mom Biscuit (on The Family Guy) as they buried her in Texas was extremely funny.
Brian: "Just say anything please"
Stewie: "Oh all right then. And yay, God said to Abraham, you must kill your son Isacc. And Abraham said: I can't hear you, you have to speak into the microphone. And God said: Oh I'm sorry is this better? Check, check check, Jerry pull the high end out, I'm getting a bit of hiss back here."
Brian: "No say something about my mother."
Stewie: "Ah right. I never knew Biscuit as a dog, but I did know her as a table. She was very sturdy, four strong legs."
Brian: "Thanks, thanks that's enough."
Stewie: "Yes, Requiem, Terra Pax and so forth."
John Cleese for Graham Chapman:
"Graham Chapman, co-author of the "parrot Sketch", is no more. He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it, breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainmant in the sky, and I guess that we're all thinking how sad it is that a man of such talent, such capability and kindness, of such unusual intelligence should now be so suddenly 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 think I should say this is, he would never forgive me if I didn't, if I threw away this opportunity to shock you all on his behalf. Anything for him but mindless good taste. I could hear him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this: "Alright, Cleese, you're very proud of beeing the first person ever to say `shit´ on television. If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say `FUCK´!!!
You see, the trouble is, I can't. If he were here with me now I would probably have the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his balls, his splendid defiance. And so I'll have to content myself instead with saying 'Betty Mardsen...'