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Can we talk about the bathroom situation at funeral homes? It's like a high-stakes game of restroom roulette. You walk in, and there's always someone in front of the mirror fixing their hair and checking their teeth, like they're about to hit the afterlife red carpet. Dude, this is not the time for a beauty pageant – we're here to say goodbye, not to compete in Miss Death Universe. And then there's that awkward moment when you accidentally make eye contact with yourself in the mirror while trying to discreetly check if you have spinach in your teeth. You're standing there, and the person in the mirror is like, "Well, this is the most uncomfortable staring contest of my existence.
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So, I recently attended a funeral, and can we talk about the unspoken fashion rules at these places? You walk into a funeral home, and suddenly everyone's a fashion critic, judging your outfit like it's a runway show for the dearly departed. It's like, "Oh, she's wearing black, but is it mourning black or 'I just love this color' black?" I'm convinced there's a secret funeral fashion police force handing out citations in the back. And then there's always that one guy who shows up in a Hawaiian shirt, like he thought it was a luau instead of a funeral. I'm thinking, "Is he mourning or just celebrating the life of the deceased with a tropical flair?" Maybe he's onto something – I mean, who wouldn't want a piña colada and a conga line at their funeral?
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You know what's the worst part about funeral homes? The elevators. It's like a scene from a horror movie – everyone piled into this small, awkward space, desperately trying not to make eye contact. And then there's always that one person who forgets they're not alone and starts humming a tune or worse, beatboxing. And you know you're in trouble when the elevator stops on the wrong floor, and someone's relative who's there for a completely different service gets in. It's the funeral home version of a sitcom crossover episode. You're standing there holding flowers, they're holding a sympathy card, and you both exchange that look like, "Did we just enter the Twilight Zone?
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You ever notice how funeral homes are like the used car dealerships of the afterlife? I mean, you walk in there grieving, already an emotional wreck, and suddenly they're pitching you the deluxe eternal package with all the bells and whistles. "Oh, your loved one would have wanted the gold-plated casket with built-in WiFi. It's what all the cool spirits are doing these days!" And I'm just standing there thinking, "Do dead people really care about internet speed in the afterlife?" But they're relentless. It's like, "Would you like the basic funeral package or our 'Platinum Ascension Experience' with a live harpist playing 'Stairway to Heaven' as your dearly departed takes the escalator to the great beyond?" I'm just waiting for them to ask, "Do you want fries with that eternal rest?
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