Killing at a Funeral: Comedy in the Dark Hours

ROBERT SIEGEL, host:

Nothing is more certain than death, taxes and hubris, as commentator Brian Eggleston has discovered

BRIAN EGGLESTON:

I've become somewhat of a traveling funeral comedian, not that I go from city to city telling jokes about the dead or the field of mortuary sciences, nor do I frequent comedy clubs or local bars on comedy night to try out new material about obituaries. My tour stop is always the same city, my hometown of Little Rock, Arkansas, and the audience is always the same: my family.

The first performance came at my mother's funeral. After a short battle with meningitis, she passed away, and I was called upon to write some material or a memorial or whatever you want to call speeches at funerals. There were other performers there, the usual cast: ministers, co-workers, high school classmates. But when I took the mike, I opened with a bombastic joke about how my mom was in heaven organizing the angels' Parent Teacher Association and how she was telling God what to do the same way she bossed everyone else around. Heads were tossed back with laughter. Tears of joy filled the church. People were holding stomachs, they laughed so hard. I was a funeral phenom.

The next performance was at my grandmother's funeral. In typical rock star fashion, I arrived at the venue a few minutes before the event. I sat in the car behind tinted windows composing the last part of my routine, practiced it one time, then went inside, and I opened the performance with high energy and this story. My cousin and I were mad at Grandma once because she wouldn't buy us some candy. And as eight-year-olds, we promised her that when she died, we wouldn't cry at her funeral, and we'd be on the front row eating peanuts and laughing. And she said simply way back then, `I don't care. I ain't going to be there to see it nohow. You can do what you want to do.' The audience rumbled with laughter. The building itself seemed to shake with a much needed healing. Two funerals, two great sold-out shows. Someone even asked my sister, `Ooh, do you think your brother would speak at my funeral? He is great.'

Recently I was tapped for another performance. My uncle just passed away, and I was booked for the gig at the last minute. My wife, who's a therapist, has expressed her concern that the only way I grieve is through laughter. Hey, it's hard work being a traveling funeral comedian, especially the behind-the-scenes preparation. Before I performed at my mom's funeral, I had to leave the state for a week. I spent seven days crying and thinking about what I would say. The night before her funeral, I sat solemn, staring at a sheet of paper with her name on it, holding on to the pain of knowing that this would be my first speech where my mom would not be on the front row smiling. While sitting in the car just before my grandmother's funeral, I had to practice that one time because I had to hear myself. I had to say the words and fight the emotions of knowing that breakfast at Grandma's house was now only a memory.

And for my uncle, I sat in Kinko's at a computer reading the speech on the screen, waiting for tears to stop. A few dry runs and I was ready and composed for the show. I was also serving double duty as pallbearer at my uncle's funeral. I opened upbeat and took a quick journey of his life through the eyes of the kid and delivered some quick jokes to test the waters. But something went terribly wrong. My eye contact was awful. My timing was off. I started bumbling over words and calling people by the wrong name. It felt like a really bad amateur karaoke routine. I finished the gig, and from the audience came a few claps and one single `Amen.'

My cousin spoke after I had finished. She delivered a completely unrehearsed speech about how my uncle had moved her from town to town and how his blue-collar wisdom had trumped a crew of professional movers. She told some more jokes, and heads started rolling back, a few more jokes and a few more laughs. Then she talked about the lessons she gained from my uncle's premature death. She was a hit. I had been upstaged by a first-time funeral speaker.

I sat on the front row as family and friends took part in the final viewing. I smiled as my grandfather hobbled from the rear of the church to bid farewell to his son. I forced a grin as a cousin stood with wobbling knees fighting composure while music played. I tried my best to give a smirk as my dad disguised his emotions behind what he told me was nothing more than a runny nose. It was then that I realized I had bombed. Nobody was thinking about my jokes or the stories I'd written early that morning. Instead they thought only of the loss.

The show was over, the curtain closed, and I made the trek back home to try and come up with some better funeral material because I'm sure there'll be a lot more gigs.

SIEGEL: Brian Eggleston lives in Stone Mountain, Georgia. He's author of the novel "Catfish Quesadillas."

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