Witch, its been rough

Welcome back, my little cauldron of chaos. Today’s brew? A funeral story so absurd, even the Grim Reaper would’ve been in the corner whispering, “What the actual hell?”

Now, funerals are supposed to be calm, respectful, and mournful. This one? More like Jerry Springer: Afterlife Edition.

It started when my uncle passed. Sad part. Cue the single black crow and minor key piano. Then enters my cousin—sporting paint-splattered jeans, a baseball cap that might have been surgically attached, and a mysterious plus-one no one recognized. Think “hardware store employee who wandered into the wrong building” energy. But hey—at least he came. Which is more than I can say for my sister, who didn’t even bother to show up for her own mother’s funeral. But we’ll save that roast for another full moon.

Brother of Paint Jeans politely asks for the hat to come off, out of respect for their dad. Hat stays on. My other uncle decides politeness is dead too and quietly (and profanely) demands the hat’s removal. Mystery Friend jumps in with, “Who the F are you?” My uncle fires back: “His uncle. Who the F are you?” Honestly, it deserved a standing ovation.

Then another polite request turns into a full-on brawl—next to the casket. And I, of course, am in the middle, sandwiched between grief, rage, and bad cologne, trying to separate people like I’m hosting Funeral Fight Club.

And then… my mother—oh, bless her—has Mystery Friend by the throat, pinned to the wall like she’s been training with ghost hunters and mafia bosses. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or to ask her for lessons.

And just when you think it couldn’t get more bizarre—Paint Jeans orders a pizza. To. The. Casket. His reasoning? “Dad liked pizza.” Which is… touching? Creepy? Both? Imagine the delivery guy walking into that scene. I hope he got hazard pay.

Let me just say—while fists were flying, people were shouting, and pizza delivery drivers were questioning their life choices—at least the casket didn’t get knocked over. Truly, in my family, that counts as a win.

The whole thing was a blur—grief, chaos, and the lingering smell of pepperoni. But that’s how it goes with us. Some families gather to mourn; we gather to summon the spirit of pure, unfiltered mayhem. And if the dead are watching? Well… at least they’re entertained.