The Eulogy Ghost Writer

Do It All Dad had a bit in his old standup comedy act called Wise Black Grandma, where he’d say, “If I could do it again, I would’ve subbed my no show whiny Jewish Grandma for a wise black Grandma to fill in her place at my wedding instead. Post an ad on Craigs List, “Wise Black Grandma need for a wedding in Woodstock. Tyler Perry impersonators are welcome, must be comfortable performing in front of white audiences only.”  Growing up, Do It All Dad grew a fondness, teetering on full blown love for his substitute Grandpa Ed, who exuded the furry browed, warm hearted, wiser glint you’d expect from a retired Jewish estate tax lawyer from Queens, in his button up, neatly woven sweaters and whiff of well put together after shave.

Becoming a grandpa doesn’t make you into Santa Claus, yet Grandpa Ed, his substitute Grandpa, who his Jewish Grandma Ethel remarried soon after the death of her 1st husband Murray, would shell out an always, neat, crisp 5 dollar bill for the grandkid who found the Afikoman which is the half broken piece of Matzah little Jewish kids go looking for after dinner for Passover, which was a nice, cheer filled touch to celebrate the Jewish people’s liberation from slavery in honor of God’s hardcore divine intervention years, on the behalf of his chosen people, meant to become cosmic perfectionist lovers of TV, who lived to complain in restaurants about unrecognized, immediate service.

Now, Grandpa Ed had a grandson from his 1st marriage, yet you didn’t get that distinct impression based on the eulogy he delivered on his grandpa’s behalf and Roger was billed as the really smart one because he played chess and wore plenty of turtlenecks, which gives you 10 extra IQ points easy.  Grandpa Ed was dead now and Roger who later went to Harvard was supposed to be giving a heartfelt eulogy in honor of his biological grandfather, not his rebound one, yet merely reading some boring letter his original wife wrote to Grandpa Ed, devoid of any juicy details such as their sweaty sex period after World War  2, when she used to lick Ice Cream Bonbons off his bellybutton during those brutally hot summer Queens nights, before Grandpa passed the bar, become a family estate tax lawyer and could afford an AC unite of their own, failed to bring back any semblance of real deal connective feeling either.

Eulogies really do separate the men from the ungrateful twats such as Roger, who couldn’t muster up a single original, expressive remembrance of his dead biological grandfather, who treated him like the 2nd coming of Bobby Fisher.  Eulogies also reveal if Grandpa raised a cunt for brains daughter to. Now, there’s a good kind of gaul and a bad kind of gaul. Faye, Roger’s, clammy, insincere peppy, patronizing, style free, tad stumpy mother, showcased the worst kind of gaul, when during her eulogy, she went for the kishke’s, meaning the intestines in Yiddish by openly declaring permanent f you season on Do It All Dad’s grandma when she said with what felt like manufactured, dialed up invective, “I’m just glad that now Dad can join mom now in heaven”, which was a low blow on par with Mini Me trying to gnaw off Austin’s Power’s Nuts, In The Spy That Shagged Me.”  

Now, in the limo ride to the grave site, Faye asks Do It All Dad, a 20-year-old college junior at the time, “You didn’t write your eulogy did, you? He says, “No, my mom wrote it for me Faye.” Faye almost stutters and says, “Well, I just thought.”  The 20-year-old Do It All Dad adds, “You thought what Faye, I hired a eulogy ghost writer with my bus boy tip money this summer in Cape Cod. My eulogy was well received by the Rabbi because it sprang from my heart Faye. Regardless, if Grandpa Ed was my rebound grandpa or not, he still treated me like I was his own grandson worthy of his wisdom and love. I recall him telling me how to place my feet when using a 7 iron once, which is more than my own dad ever taught me besides a half-formed hook shot. Wasn’t there anything Roger could’ve mentioned to honor his legacy outside of reading an old letter his 1st wife wrote? Reality is, your son Roger, the genius, is the one guilty of plagiarizing, by stealing the memories contained in an old letter your mom wrote, to fill in the lapse of having any soul serenade sermon to deliver on his own. And where do you get the gaul to disrespect my grandmother at her dead husband’s funeral, regardless, if you feel her endlessly manic bi-polar art buying spree of southwest American Indian art, being responsible for draining his will to live one second more either. Also, Jews focus on more Mitzvah and doing good for the sake of doing good hear on Earth, without the intention of sole financial gain or promised hooked up afterlife in Heaven, where all sins are cleared, even if Grandpa Ed asked Jesus to forgive him for raising such a cunt for brains like yourself. Do I have way with words or what? But I’m positive Roger will make an excellent food coloring chemist for Johnson and Johnson to overcompensate for his color free personality, which he could thank you for inheriting at your funeral to.”

The End

Michael Kornbluth   

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