Wednesday, July 06, 2011

The First Time He Died

 I’ll always look back fondly on the day we buried Evan alive.
 It was one of Emily’s birthday parties, and we were all upstairs playing “Funeral”. In Funeral, one person is the tombstone, who sits at the end of the grave and recites the date of birth, date of death, cause of death, and epitaph. The priest is all like, "They shall be greatly missed. Maybe. Probably not. Who is this, again?" The organist plays dramatic music. The widow either weeps loudly, or is like, "Yayyyy, he died! :D LIFE INSURANCE MONEEYYY!" The mourners weep. The more the widow pays them, the louder they weep. The corpse is usually just dead, but will occasionally sit up and ask what's going on. Somebody then clubs them over the head so the funeral can continue.
All of us little girls took turns playing all of the parts.
But eventually, we ran out of corpses.

 Evan came innocently upstairs, presumably to inform us that it was time for cake. I think he was even kind of smiling. He was probably trying to convey that he came in peace, with good tidings of cake and joy to all people.
But he never got to deliver his message.

 We needed corpses, and as the Big Brother, he was the ideal next victim.
We all grabbed onto him and shoved him into his grave (which was Emily’s bed. Also, this only worked because he didn’t resist). We declared him dead, and who ever was the tombstone that time declared that he had died from getting hit by an ice cream truck (I think).

 Evan wasn’t a very good corpse. He kept popping out of his grave, proclaiming he would agree to be dead only if he got a burger and fries. We promised him there would be a burger and fries waiting for him on the other side, and he died with a pleasant smile on his face. We buried him under the covers. I was the mourner. Possibly his widow, but I’m pretty sure I was just the paid mourner (I don't think I was paid much. I don't remember weeping very dramatically).
As we were finishing up his funeral, the adults downstairs realized that Evan’s message must have been interrupted, and called us down for cake. Of course, we gleefully abandoned our victim for sugar.

 I assume he dug himself up and come downstairs to receive cake, but I'm not really sure. He may have been up there munching on heavenly burgers and fries for all I know.

We were really messed up little kids.

Even better, this party was a sleepover, and we tried to bury the poor guy AGAIN the next morning.
He didn't let us.
Also I think he might've actually died at some point, because he doesn't remember any of this.

(This post makes me think of This Unskippable . There is most definitely language and violence in this cutscene. You have been forewarned.)


  1. Hey M*airy...or Mary, I guess, haha. I'm Delilah, from HER, you probably don't remember me but I was a...sort of friend, I guess, of yours? Maybe "friend" but unwilling-ness on your side. I looked at your profile and, on a hunch, followed your hint and used my detective skills. XD Your blog is most excellent, and I love your hair...okay, that sounded weird. And now this comment is long and rambling. I'll stop now.

  2. I remember you! I don't think I was unwilling to be your friend. XD
    Sorry I didn't see your comment for so long. No one ever leaves comments, so I hardly ever look.
    Thank you, dearie. :D


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