Quotes About Funeral

So sorry for your loss, Grandma said to Monica. My condolences. Yeah, whatever, Monica said. Grandma leaned into the casket for a close look. What are you gonna do, kiss him? Monica asked. I was trying to see where they cut him up when they took his brain out, Grandma said. Monica sucked in some fake smoke. You'd have to unzip his pants for that one.

Will you look at this, Grandma said. Closed casket. Isn't this a fine howdy-do. I get dressed up and come out to pay my respects, and I don't even get to see anything. Martha Deeter was shot and autopsied. They'd taken her brain out to get weighed. After she was put back together she probably looked like Frankenstein. I was personally relieved to see a closed casket.

Your grandmother needs a ride to the viewing, and I'm holding you responsible if she shoots someone, gets arrested, or tries to take a selfie with the deceased.

I was in no rush to get back to the funeral parlor, so I called Ranger again. "Hi," I said to his answering service. "It's me. Things are looking up. Your wife is tailing me, but she hasn't shot at me yet today, so that's a good thing, right? And you need to answer your damn phone calls.

Dear Lord,' Lula said, 'Bless this disgusting, swelled-up groundhog and take him into the Kingdom of Heaven or wherever it is that dead groundhogs are supposed to go. Amen.' We both made the sign of the cross. 'I would have said more, but I didn't really know the deceased,' Lula said.

I'd take the flu over the funeral any day of the week.

Grandma Mazur reads the obituary columns like they're part of the paper's entertainment section. Other communities have country clubs and fraternal orders. The Burg has funeral parlors. If people stopped dying, the social life of the Burg would come to a grinding halt.

What's up?" I asked my mother. "I just got fourteen phone calls about someone hitting Joseph's Grandma Bella in the face with a chocolate cream pie when she was walking out of the funeral home. They said she was going out the side door for some reason, and someone came out of nowhere and hit her with the pie." "Did they know who did it?" Grandma asked. "Bella said it was you.

You know, I had grown up standing on public sidewalks, saying things that people, you know, were very provoked by and were upset by. And - but standing outside that first soldier's funeral, it was eerily quiet.

I used to work in a funeral home to feel good about myself, just the fact that I was breathing.

I want a natural burial. Just straight into the ground in a shroud.

Dad's funeral was standing room only; most in attendance were strangers to me. At the back, a lone Marine stood silently, then left. People told me he'd saved their life or helped them in their darkest hour.

One man, after receiving a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, found himself followed everywhere with "insensitive and tasteless" ads for funeral services. The theoretical idea that customers might welcome or enjoy such solicitations increasingly seemed like a bad joke.

Autobiografía de un yogui, de Paramahansa Yogananda (Ananda, 2010). Éste es uno de los libros más impactantes que leyó Dan mientras vivió en la selva. Steve Jobs pidió que repartieran este libro entre los asistentes a su funeral.

You come to a wedding, you should dress with the dignity of a funeral, because who the fuck knows when you'll ever see the couple again, and who the fuck knows when they'll see you again. So you get your look right, you don't glam it up, you don't whore it up, even though it's Las Vegas. No one ever got kicked out of a place in Las Vegas for dressing elegantly.

young Harry was known to his mother's staff as a contrarian who did the opposite of what he was told. As he grew up he became increasingly undisciplined. His father and his wider family watched helplessly as the boy refused to behave and rejected education. After he unsuccessfully tried to pass his entrance exam to Eton, his relations recognised that Harry's ignorance was spilling over into arrogance. That reality was concealed during Diana's funeral.

At my funeral, I want Meryl Streep crying in five different accents.

The orchestra had ceased and were now climbing onto their chairs, with their instruments. The floral offerings flew; the coffin teetered. Catch it! a voice shouted. They sprang forward, but the coffin crashed heavily to the floor, coming open. The corpse tumbled slowly and sedately out and came to rest with its face in the center of a wreath. Play something! the proprietor bawled, waving his arms; play! Play!

When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old manservant— a combined gardener and cook— had seen in at least ten years.

They seem to have accepted that she's gone." "I don't see how they could be sure she is. But I wish we'd known. Could've brought some flowers." "Daedra never suggested this. It seems to be a surprise." "A surprise funeral? You do that, here?" "A first, for me.

The final salute, on the day of his funeral, was to be the cutoff of all electric current in the nation for one minute. But this was deemed too costly and dangerous. Instead, only certain lights were dimmed. The wheels of progress were not stilled, even for an instant. Thomas Edison, I am sure, would have wanted it that way.

The church was stuffed with mourners, of course. No one from work - I tried to keep my life and my magazine separate - but otherwise everybody Andrew and I knew was there. It was disorientating, like having the entire contents of one's address book dressed in black and exported into pews in non alphabetical order.

We looked as if we'd been cobbled together in Photoshop, the three of us, walking to my husband's funeral. One white middle-class mother, one skinny black refugee girl, and one small Dark Knight from Gotham City.

At least once a year there is a predawn rehearsal of the Queen Mother's funeral procession through the streets of London.