My friend, Kara, and I have been making plans for years about how we're going to spend our time in Hell together. Chances are, we're going to spend it laughing at other people.
We're not evil, or necessarily bad: we just find really awful things hilarious.
Last night we were talking on the phone, laughing ourselves into mutual, obnoxious, pants-wetting coughing fits when the conversation shifted to people with Unfortunate Names.
Sadly, this has been one of our favorite topics of conversation for as long as I can remember. Kara and I have been friends since high school, where we bonded over drinking Sloe Gin out of empty vanilla bottles behind the 7-11 and smoking bootlegged cigarettes. Because we were that kind of awesome.
(Okay, confession: Sometimes, when I get really, really bored and my only other option is to clean the toilet or something, I browse through the phonebook looking for Unfortunate Names. So far, the best name I have ever found was Sybil Nipple. I know, right? Sybil Nipple. I may or may not have used that name many, many times in my return address when sending shit out because I thought it was so damn funny.)
Anyway, so Kara randomly tells me that when she reads a newspaper, she always peruses the Obits (like most people do, yes? Just to make sure your name isn't in it? No? Just us, then?) and recently, she happened upon an ornate, oval, color photo, front and center, with the name of the Dearly Departed written underneath:
Gailord "Gay" Wayne Horney.
(I DARE you not to laugh.)
Kara, being Kara, cut out the obituary for future enjoyment, which is why she happened to have it on hand last night so that she could read it to me over the phone.
I lost my shit, y'all. Best. Name. EVER.
(In case you were wondering, Gay enjoyed traveling, gardening, raising rare breeds of chickens, and belonged to numerous square dancing clubs.)
After we had a good yuk over poor, newly dead Gay Horney, I launched into a long, chortling, snorting, guffawing account of the old headstone I found in the Spragueville Cemetery that belonged to Mary Anis Huntley. I was there with Dan and his fam on Memorial Day when I happened upon it... and yeah, I was the person standing on top of the hill pointing, laughing, taking pictures, and peeing my pants over poor Mary Anis.
(You can try six ways from Sunday to find a fancy way to prounce "Anis" but I'm sorry, it's still going to come out "Anus." It just is.)
(I confess to being slightly disappointed that the name wasn't Harry Anis Hunter, because that would have allowed me to die happy. At least I would have had something to giggle about throughout my eternity in Hell.)
You are going to die one day in some horrible, embarrassing, butt-related way and everyone is going to laugh at you.