And some people never show up except for their own funerals-- which of course reminds me of a story…
Seamus O’Rourke was a mean mon-- an abusive SOB, in the vernacular of our times. But, praise God, the raucous laddie met his Maker at the tender age of 44, when he got conked on the head with a Guiness Stout bottle in the heat of a barroom brawl.
Even so, his family gave him a fine funeral with all the trimmings. And actually, quite a few people showed up, though most of them said they just wanted to make double sure it was really Seamus in that coffin.
After a short but moving eulogy, Father Murphy asked the congregation, “Now, would someone like to tell an edifying story or two about the dearly departed?”
Except a few nervous twitters, the whole church got very, very quiet, and everyone looked down at their shoes.
“SURELY,” roared Murphy, “at least one of ye can say a kind word about this poor corpse!!”
Finally, an older gent in the rear of the church stood up, removed his cap, held it to his chest, cleared his throat and said softly, “His brother was worse.”