# The World's WORST Eulogies.



## hardheadjarhead (Jul 10, 2005)

*THE WORLDS WORST EULOGIES*

·  She died as she lived: oddly dressed and smelling vaguely of turpentine. 

·  Death is not an end, but a beginning. Specifically, the beginning of an eternity of black nothingness. 

·  He had many hobbies, and he was very proud of them. He had that rarest of gifts: the ability to find the beauty and artistry in the hardcore amateur farm porn he shot with his Super 8 over at Oakville Community Stables. 

·  He touched all of our lives. Unfortunately, he also touched several of our children. 

·  Bill was not a rich man. He was not a proud man. He was not a successful man. Nor was he especially attractive, articulate, or even remotely respected. Neither was he particularly well-liked or hygienic. So I suppose, what I'm really trying to say is... there's cake back at the house and if we hurry, we can probably catch the second half of the Bulls game. 

·  The French have a term, "le petit mort." It is ironic that in his obsessive pursuit of this so-called "little death," that Dan's own flawed autoerotic asphyxiation techniques should lead him to such a big, honkin' drawer-soiling demise. 

·  There's no getting around it: Bob was a big, fat, sweaty pig of a man, which means that now, there's more pie for the rest of us. Dig in! 

·  And through our tears of grief, let us endeavor to never forget the flatulent hilarity that ensued each time Uncle Mikey graced us with his presence. Surely the Seraphim themselves are pulling upon his finger at this very moment. 

·  I loved my son! I loved my gay son! I loved my gay, tax-evading, alcoholic, armed-robbing ex-convict son whose real father was a crackhead street hustler who went by the name "Little Miss Meat Saddle!" 

·  And while it is truly a tragedy when someone so young is taken from us so unexpectedly, it is doubly heart-wrenching in circumstances such as these, when a promising career in direct-to-video adult entertainment is cut so terribly short. 

·  His spirit will be with us always. And by spirit, I mean overwhelming credit card debt. 

·  She was a woman well ahead of her time, whose near-legendary promiscuity set the gold standard for generations of post-Women's-Lib tramps. 

·  Hers was a pure, goodly, and chaste life, which helped to ensure that her heart, liver, and kidneys were especially desirable on the organ transplant black market. 

·  Tom consumed life with zeal. Positively gorged himself on it. In fact, if life was the frozen carcass of an extinct mastodon, partially emerged from a shrinking glacier, Tom was the ravenous jaws of a starving coyote, blindly feasting upon its gamey, semi-decayed goodness. 

·  Behold our beloved grandmother... her crooked, nagging maw silent and still at last. 

·  And let us pray for Earl's sake that they have reruns of "Mama's Family" in heaven. Or God help God. 

·  Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to honor #456-B's life before consigning him to lot #5, space #A-16. Praise God. 

·  Ladies and Gentlemen: Put your hands together for everybody's favorite stiff: Marty! I know you're wondering how Marty got to the funeral home from the hospital - he drove his CARcass! Har! Har! Try the veal! 

·  I still can't get over that he's gone. I also can't get over that I totally survived that same car accident! Can you believe it? I should have had my head cracked off like what's-his-name here. 

·  Let us give thanks that the Lord, in his infinite wisdom, took our dear sister to heaven in her prime, thereby proving his benevolence and love for us all. 

·  He used to look up at me and it was so difficult to talk, because he had four or five chins, and he'd wheeze, "Just fifty more pounds." And then he'd eat seven or eight Twinkies and a couple of cheeseburgers. I've never known such steely discipline. He died reaching for a dream. 

·  I don't think I'll ever get over him. But if anyone wants to try and help me, I'm in the back by the boxes of wine. 

·  I hope she's in a happier place. But let's be honest: you don't get struck by lightening during a sunny day because God loves you, you know? Still, we can HOPE. 

·  Frankie Two Thumbs wasn't a bad guy. You know what I'm talkin' about? He could make a mean baked ziti. And he smelled good, always with the fancy cologne. So it is with deepest respects that we fill his stomach with concrete and toss him in the East River. 

·  Steve wasn't unhappy about life. He was just super excited to die! 

·  What can I say about the recently deceased? I didn't know her personally, but members of her extended family have contributed generously to my parish. God bless! 

·  As the proprietor of this funeral home, I can honestly say that never before has such a magnificent sample of corpus delicti crossed over my embalming table. 

·  A last wish is a last wish. So, according to his will, we will now shoot Ted out of this cannon into the ocean while the local high school madrigals sing "Yesterday." Man, even dead he's high maintenance. 

·  She seduced my husband, spread vicious rumors about me, and got me fired from my dream job. That's all I want to say really, I just want to be in the front of the line when we start burying the *****. 

·  Without further adieu... who wants to douse the coffin in gasoline and who wants to hammer this broken broomstick through the *******'s heart? 

·  I loved him more than any other man. Sure, sometimes I peeked at others, but that's completely natural. And okay, sometimes I squeezed, grabbed, and stroked too - but that doesn't mean I didn't love him with all of my heart. 

·  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust - wait a second - that's a nice ring. Anyone mind if I try it on? Not like he's gonna notice! Anyone? 

·  Okay, whoever painted Dad up like a circus clown better confess now, or I swear to Jesus Christ when I find out who it is, I'll bury them WITH him. 

·  I remember old Harry. We had some good times. Like the time we were driving drunk on that dark road and ran down that old lady and kept on driving. The memories come back, don't they? 

·  And finally, let us meditate on his last words - "Warm up my goddamned bedpan you ungrateful, good-for-nothing retard before I -ACK!" 

·  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Except maybe less debt, because once those vultures are done picking through the will, I'm gonna be left with enough money for a whiskey sour, a hot fudge sundae, and a roll with an octogenarian streetwalker! 

·  For whom the bell tolls? It tolls for thee. But later. The bell really tolled for Carol here. Tolled so much she mysteriously caught fire after the third car ran her over. 

·  I'm sorry I don't usually get choked up. But anyway, sprinkle a little of Jenny's ash in the bowl and pass the ceremonial bong. We promised her we'd smoke her up, man. And we are! 

·  It's always sad when God calls a child home. But in the case of Larry here, I'm not so sad. Nice guy, smoked too much, whatever. So to Larry - nice knowing you, see you later. 

·  I have already apologized to his family, and to his friends. But let me do it again: I am sorry for stealing my best friend Dave's body and doing that funny "Weekend at Bernie's" thing. But it was our favorite movie - and dragging him around to a bar seemed like the right thing to do. I had no idea he was so... delicate. 

·  As you know, Jeff bought the ranch while doin' his favorite ho, and I like to think he'll have that great big gap-toothed Jeff-grin on his mug for all eternity. Yo' and if you see a skanky-looking blonde with tattoos on her hands driving a black beemer, call the cops - the ***** took his keys! 

·  Here lies my son, Mr. Rich Big Shot. You'd think he could spend 25 cents on a phone call to his mother before killing himself in one of those fancy hotels with the bidet and everything. 

·  My husband's funeral is going to cost me almost ten thousand dollars. So forgive me if I'm pissed off that he's not wearing any pants! I paid for pants! I don't care if the coffin covers his waist. Furthermore: Stanley never wore rouge! 

·  We all knew Chris to be unusual in life as well as death. Anyway - he really, really, really wanted y'all to eat this paté. He force-fed himself with oats and stuff for weeks before kicking off just to make sure the paté had a smooth, rich flavor. 

·  I never screwed Cynthia. But I wanted to and God knows I tried. Even now, in death, I'd have to say I still wouldn't kick the broad out of my bed. 

·  One more toast to the old bum! God rest his soul! And may we all stay oblivious to the crippling irony of a bunch of emotionally immature alcoholics getting bombed so that they can pretend to deal with the death of a friend who was so drunk he killed himself and a family of six sitting in the window of that Arby's at the intersection. 

·  What happens to us when we die? I have no idea, but holy **** am I terrified. And I'm a priest, for the love of Christ! 

·  In conclusion: I want each of you - all four hundred of you - to join me in song and take up the little milk bones that were just passed out. Take up the milk bones and toss them in little Poopy's casket. He'll need them in Doggie Heaven! 

·  I know you're shocked to see me here, but listen: a verdict of innocent is a verdict of innocent. High priced lawyers and head in the refrigerator or not, I'm innocent and I'm gonna miss this ***** as much as any of you bozos. 

·  I'll never forget the last time I seen him. He was all, "Betcha $50 I can wrestle a 'gator." And I was all, "You're on!"


Regards,


Steve


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## arnisador (Jul 10, 2005)

I read a story recently about a prof. whose college fired him for delivering a tirade about the college during the eulogy he gave at a colleague's funeral.


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## TigerWoman (Jul 11, 2005)

This one isn't so bad...



> · She died as she lived: oddly dressed and smelling vaguely of turpentine.



If I ever get an area to paint in, I would be oddly dressed probably with paint dabs on my shirt and definitely smelling of turpentine.  To die painting wouldn't be so bad, not so, if it was from the fumes though. TW


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