the funeral directors son

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dad.. i’m tired of you commodifying the dead men out walking when we drive by golf clubs or along sunny seafronts in our horrible hearse… you joke about it behind the backs of these rich old-timers who cough up big gold nuggets for a full five star send off, but i’ve no appetite for your dark mercenary humour anymore.  

i can’t even get a girlfriend on account of it, and when i do score the occasional date, it always turns out to be some weird gothic girl with tattoos or piercings in her lady garden. there was one about a week ago asking endless questions about embalming procedure and fluid drainage while munching down on sweet and sour pork at the golden dragon chinese restaurant .. and as for the nice girls…word gets to them about what i do before i can get anywhere near them.. i creep them out….. i wanna be a television chef … or a life affirming pop star. 

stuff it dad.. i know it’s a steady family business n’all, but i’m out of here…sorry mum.

there was roughly three seconds of deadly silence before his fun loving mother exploded laughing her big tits off. she knew her pathetic thirty five year old son who still lived at home was going nowhere fast…

isn’t he’s just like ten million other bedwetters who can’t find the resolve to see what that’ve already got, nor the balls to make the leap towards a life they’d love to lead.

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