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You know, I've got this ghostwriter, and they sent me a note about "memoriam." Now, I'm grateful for the help, but can we talk about ghostwriters for a moment? I mean, they're the unsung heroes of the writing world. They're like the real-life Casper, except instead of being friendly, they're just really good at sentence structure. I'm not saying my ghostwriter is bad, but sometimes I think they might be a little too literal. Like, they sent me this note, and all it says is "memoriam." I'm thinking, "Okay, are we writing a standup routine or a Latin textbook?" It's like having a conversation with a thesaurus. "Hey, how's it going?" "I'm experiencing a state of satisfactory well-being, thank you."
And don't get me started on the anonymity. I want to meet my ghostwriter, you know? Maybe take them out for a coffee and say, "Thanks for making me sound way smarter than I actually am." But no, they're the invisible hand behind the comedy curtain.
So, shoutout to my ghostwriter wherever you are. You're doing the Lord's work, my friend. Or maybe the ghost's work. I'm not sure.
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Ladies and gentlemen, have you ever been to a funeral and thought, "Man, I wish I could write my own eulogy"? No? Just me? Well, my ghostwriter handed me this note about "memoriam," and it got me thinking about the pressure we put on eulogies. I mean, it's the final review of your life, and it's not even on Yelp. You can't defend yourself if they get something wrong! You're lying there in the casket, and your cousin is like, "He was such a quiet guy." Quiet? I once sang 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in the shower so loud the neighbors called the cops! I'm not quiet; I'm considerate of my neighbors' music preferences.
And then there's the classic line, "He had a great sense of humor." Really? Because I don't see any of you laughing right now! If I could, I'd pop out of this casket and say, "Come on, people, lighten up! It's my funeral, not yours!"
So, note to self: write a eulogy that's a standup routine. At least then, I know I'll get some laughs at my own funeral. It's the ultimate mic drop moment.
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I was walking through a cemetery the other day because, you know, I'm a standup comedian, and that's what we do for fun. And I see this tombstone that says, "Rest in Peace." Really? Rest in peace? I want my tombstone to say, "Rest in the Funnies." I mean, I've spent my whole life trying to make people laugh; the least they can do is chuckle as they walk by my final resting place. And what's the deal with those extravagant mausoleums? You've got families spending more on a burial plot than I spend on rent. If I wanted to live in a fancy box, I'd buy a mansion, not a cemetery suite. And you know those people with the huge tombstones? I bet they're just trying to one-up each other even in the afterlife. "Oh, you've got a marble angel? Well, I've got a granite unicorn!"
But hey, maybe I'll be different. I'll have a tombstone that says, "He told jokes until the very end." And then, just to mess with people, I'll add, "Psst... I'm watching you.
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So, I'm at this memorial service, right? And I overhear two people talking about "memoriam." Now, I'm thinking they're discussing the deceased's favorite memories or something sentimental. But no, they're arguing about the correct pronunciation of "memoriam." One person says it's "memor-ee-am," and the other swears it's "memor-eye-am." I'm standing there, trying not to laugh because, let's be honest, arguing about pronunciation at a memorial is like debating the best pizza toppings during a diet. But then it hits me; this is the perfect distraction from the sadness. Forget about grief; let's focus on the silent 'i' in memoriam!
So, I step in and settle the debate. I say, "Guys, it doesn't matter how you pronounce it. What matters is that we're all here to remember the person we lost." They both look at me like I just solved world peace. And in that moment, I realized, comedy has the power to bring people together—even in the weirdest of times.
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