You knew you weren't supposed to laugh at funerals. But, really, how could you not? The fat man was being buried with an order of fucking french fries, for christ's sake. I mean, really, what else could you have done?
When you choked back your laughter the entire room turned to you, and stared you down with quite a fury. Some people whispered to each other. Some people just shook their heads. You tried to cover it up with a cough, like you had something stuck in your throat, but we all knew you were laughing.
When the service was over, the dead fat man's brother approached you the way brother's approach people who have just laughed at their dead fat brothers, and he asked you what the fuck was the matter with you, how the fuck could you laugh at a dead man, at his dead brother who had died so tragically?
At that point it crossed your mind to remind this man that his brother died in his sleep, and everyone knew it was coming, including him, so it wasn't really that tragic. Sad, yes. But not tragic. But you decided not to remind him of this. Instead, you said you had been reminded of the time the dead fat man and yourself had gotten very drunk in some woods and fondled your girlfriends together in separate tents. It was a good story to think up on such short notice.
The brother did not buy it, though, and he punched you twice in the mouth and told you to fuck your mom and self, and then he spat on your bloody mouth. You understood his grief.
It was right about then when you decided your days of crashing random funerals were over.