Funerals for some people are a way to say goodbye to their loved ones, for others it is a chance to draw a line under their feelings for the deceased and for still others it allows them an opportunity to pay their final respects to a person who touched their lives in someway. For me it is a chance to crack onto vulnerable, mourning tit bearers whose emotions are so raw and ragged that they’ll mistake a salivating bell end for a shoulder to cry on. That’s why when I get the call asking me to attend the funeral of an old mate i’m all over it… ‘of course i’ll prepare a little something to say’ I growl in my most sympathetic tones, ‘hmmmm, oh yes love we were very close he was a great source of inspiration to me,’ I babble, attempting to force some semblance of compassion into my voice whilst desperately trying to remember if the widow I’m on the dog and bone to is anywhere near half fuckable. ‘What? oh yes I’m sure he did speak very well of me…will his little sister be coming?’
Now, I can only half remember this dearly departed fuckwit, I have some nagging doubt as to whether or not we were actual friends or whether he was just some desperate, crazy, random associate. I seem to have a vague recollection made hazy by the intervening drug fuelled years of debauchery of a disagreement involving me fucking one of his girlfriends, I decide that this is exactly the reason I should attend. I mean what if he married that girlfriend and she’s just been sobbing down the phone at me with the underlying message being ‘come and put something in my bum’?
The grim day fast approaches and I have my respect filled, heart wrenching, and not at all generic tribute penned out in full and well rehearsed. The night before the big day I’m out on the lash snorting coke off a strippers left tit (her right wouldn’t stay still) and when the weak and dreary sun finally filters through the blanket of roiling grey clouds it finds me looking suitably mournful if a little wild in the old eyeball department. Luckily I scrub up well and I’m looking dapper in my black three-piece suit, upon my arrival at the crematorium I am greeted by a tear stained wailing little sister (who I can’t remember boinking) a slightly scowling older brother (who I can’t remember fucking off) and a heartbroken tiny wasted big bottomed widow (who I definitely haven’t fucked before, but am giving serious condition to rectifying that situation) I am ushered into the oppressive gloom of the chapel where hushed mourners sit like plump impatient vultures, Somebody is fucking around pinning something to my lapel and my first shocked words are broadcast across the packed rows of cunt filled aisles on my new discreet microphone. ‘What the fuck is thi…..‘ a nervous titter fills the dour setting and I quickly get myself positioned behind the lectern in case the vultures decide to charge me because of my blurted obscenity.
My winning way with a crowd kicks’ in and I’m soon delivering what can only be described as moving sensitive oratory, keeping my head down and eyes on the speech is working well but I decide that despite my dilated piss hole eyeballs I really should look up and try to get a bit of eye on eye with the attentive listening vultures. My eyes scan across the front row, weepy would fuck sister, still angry disgruntled brother, wants’ one in her shitter widow, head in hands wont look up father and finally I’ve been nut deep in her clunge with her tits in my mouth mother….wait, what?!….. My eyes flash back, our eyes meet again and this time there is no doubt in my mind, her eyes may be red raw and a little haunted but there is a definite sex spark of recognition going on, ‘It wasn’t his girlfriend. It was his mother’ the statement bursts from my mouth before I can stop it. There are a few confused frowns and the brother looks like he wants to put me in a box next to his sibling, mother dearest has an almost half amused raised eyebrow thing going on. ‘Who told me what a great lad he was as a child’ I quickly cover up my slip and am quite impressed with my speedy reactions.
I make it through the rest of my tribute with no further outbursts despite extreme provocation from a mourning mother who now clearly wants something inside her box. When all is done she grabs hold of me by the arm and frogmarches me out of the chapel and around the corner away from prying eyes. At first she is furious, how dare I turn up at her sons funeral let alone read the tribute at the service? How could I be so insensitive after all the trouble I had caused by stuffing myself up her all those years ago? Who did I think I was hi-jacking her sons day, had I no shame? I quickly explain that I was there at the widows behest and that I’d totally forgotten about our liaison, I even raised a sultry smile as I told her I thought it had been a young sexy girlfriend we’d fallen out over. Within a minute she’s squatting down on her tottery high heels cock in mouth and within two I’m holding onto her hips’ making life in a graveyard. In typical unrestrained fashion and since we’re in a bit of a rush, I can’t stop myself from cursing coarsely and engaging in a bit of hair pulling. Once I’ve deposited my ashes and dust, we quickly tidy ourselves up and return to the rest of the mourners, who are all gathered in a bustling packed twittering mob near the entrance to the chapel. ‘What are they all doin…‘ My enquiry echoes around the chapel from the speaker positioned over the entrance door. My eyes widen in horror, mucky mum gasps in unrestrained terror by my side and her grasp on my arm tightens, we both start grasping for the still operational microphone as the true scope of what has happened starts to sink in. A roar from the crowd of ‘I’ll fucking kill the pissing fucking bastard!’ is closely followed by a charging father and son combo of vengeance. Kicked the shit out of me they did the bastards, my own fault though I suppose.