I think you should do it. Mom liked you more. Yes, she did. She bought you that BMX bike that you crash into in the woods and was scavenged by juvenile wolves. She gave you a middle name that isn’t Alfredo. Also, she told me after she caught me spray painting a sexually explicit game of Pac-Man on the side of the elementary school that she liked you better.
The oldest child doesn’t have to do it, that’s a myth. Of course you believe that, you thought you could catch chlamydia from kissing in the dark until you were fourteen.
I’ll do the next one. Seriously, I promise. How would I die before Dad? All he eats are burnt roast dinners. The charred mashed potato is probably giving him all sorts of fast-acting cancers. I am healthy. I was doing Soul Cycle until my instructor told me I wasn’t a good match for his moon sign.
Oh my God, I’m sorry I did coke at your wedding, let it go.
No, obviously we can’t let Claira do it. Middle children aren’t viable for eulogies except in cases of Midwestern gubernatorialship, multiple Nobel Prizes, or extreme attractiveness. She’s growing out her bangs, it’s not going to happen. Besides, she’s very stupid.
Remember when she tried to discourage me from my tech start-up? It was an app where you build your own frozen yogurt order and then keep it in your phone forever to look at when you’re bored at work. Claira’s a goddamn idiot, bless her soul. Just like her husband who works for Netflix. At dinner parties, he’s always asking me if I’m still listening and recommending other guests I might like. It’s always Dan Levy. I don’t want to talk to Dan Levy.
Just say something nice. No one’s expecting you to be funny for the first time in your life at Mom’s funeral. They’ll probably be impressed you can read. Hey! Stop hitting me with that. That was Mom’s favorite dish towel. It’s not my fault you had to repeat second-grade English, maybe you should have spent less time on top of the monkey bars pretending you were dead. What was I supposed to do? I had my own problems. Renée wanted to get married in front of the whole fifth grade and I was trying to win the blindfolded tetherball competition. Yes, it was very stressful. My therapist said it’s the source of my tetherball-related anxiety.
You could talk about her passion for life or whatever. She went hiking a lot, maybe there’s something in that. Remember when you went to prom with Steve Shipton and gave you all those female condoms? Is that what they used in the '80s? That’s probably how you were conceived. Tell that story.
Who cares what Grandpa thinks? He’s a pussy who can’t take a joke.
Who else could do it? Ruth, maybe? She’s what, second, third cousin? Yes, I did hook up with her at your wedding, but, in my defense, I was on a lot of coke. It’s fine, she’s adopted. Don’t tell her that, though.
Who? Gadan? No, absolutely not. He talks too fast. I know he’s an auctioneer, but, jeez, dude, don’t take it home. Although, we could make some money if he starts selling the floral arrangements and pews. What’s the church going to do about it? There’s no object section of a eulogy. Trust me, I’ve tried.
Fine. Not Gadan. I’ll just hock the pews post-ceremony while y’all are doing your thing with the dirt. We need someone with actual speech-giving experience. Maybe we could get Dan Levy to do it.