Let me just start off by saying that today’s post started off in a whole other direction. I had truly intended on posting about what a suck ass work week I’ve had those far. From one of my Field Training Officers, bitching out on me because he can’t take constructive criticism, to the fact that there is the idiot that hangs out at the clubs who has a hard on for my job. He had already filed a four page complaint on me and we were suppose to be trying to schedule mediation for in IAD. Of course that shit went out the door, because I had my troops arrest his dumb ass last night. How the fuck are you fifty years old and still acting and dressing like your dumb ass is in your twenties? Can someone please help me to understand?
However, I am digressing like a muthafuck, because that is not what this post is about. This post is about black folks and their funeral. I can not…I repeat, can not do another four hour funeral! How is a four hour funeral even remotely appropriate. Hell, even the castaways of the S.S. Minnow were only subject to a three hour tour, before the weather started getting rough and they wrecked out on Gilligan’s Island.
Things start off simple enough, pre-funeral I get messages from my telling me a generic location of where the funeral is going to be…”Hey, son, this is you mom. Jess’ funeral is going to be on Web Street. Love you. Bye.” Seriously, that is the extent of the message. How the hell those that tell me anything. Web street is a long ass, major street and you haven’t giving me the name of a church, cross street or nothing. C’mon now, mom. Can I get you to work with me? But that’s okay, because my cousin, who is the daughter of the man who passed away (no, that would not make him my uncle, it would make him the sperm donor of one of the many of my aunt‘s children), lives not to far from me so I already have it in my mind to just follow them to the funeral.
Then there was yesterday, right as I was walking out the door for work. I get another phone call from my mom….”Hey, son, this is your mom…(Yes, all her message start off like this to me. Like when addresses me as son I’m wondering who the heck is calling me)…do you have a pair of dress pants that Darwin can borrow for the funeral? Love you. Bye.” Hell no I don’t have a pair of dress pants that Darwin can wear for the funeral! My cousin Darwin is thirty eight years old, with a job. How the fuck do you live to be thirty years old and not have a suit, or at least a pair of dress pants, shirt and tie? I love you to death, cuz, but grow the fuck up! Plus, and I have told my mom this before, you can not call me and ask to borrow anything for anybody but yourself. These are grown ass people we are talking about here.
Fast forward to the funeral. I take my cousin, Jon-Jon (female), as son as we drive into the parking lot of the church she starts weeping. What the fuck? What you crying about?
Then we get in line, and I get stuck in line with the immediate family, because my mom and ’nem ain’t made it yet. I sit next to my cousin Janey’s boy friend and my Aynie (Aunt). I don’t get a program, because I the general set up for a funeral, what I need a program fo’? Boy was I wrong. First up. Praise dancer. Huh? Why is there a praise dancer at the funeral. They start the tap, I know the song and my mind immediately thinks, “I know she is not going to dance to this entire, long ass song.” She does and she wasn’t even good. I kid you not when I say that I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing or smiling, since I was so close to the front.
Now the choir was off the chain. They did an A, B and C selection (I told my sister later that I want that choir to sing at my funeral). Then their was all the other stuff that went down and two hours later I found myself asking my cousin’s man friend, to let me see the program. How long is this damn thing! (Yes, it was longer than this post). There was the sermon, five peopel joined church and by the time they got to the viewing of the dearly departed, I half expected to see people tossing their tithes and offerings into the casket.
I’ll end this post by just saying that the funeral started promptly at 12:30pm. It was a little after four by the time I left the church. Can you imaging if I had stayed to go to the burial. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.
Side bar: Little Manny came with me mom and ‘nem. He runs to me and wants to hand out, which you know causes my heart to just over flow that he loves me so much. Anyway, I ask him, “Manny, what did you learn at school this week.”
His answer? “Nothing.” He is such a little bastard.