Three buddies, dressed in black, drive down the highway.
Brother 1: Can’t believe this is really happening.
Brother 2: We all gotta go sometime.
Brother 3: Turn up the radio.
Brother 2: Love this song. Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame, you give…
Brother 1: Dude! Not cool!
Brother 2: What’s your problem?
Brother 1: He shot himself in the heart!
Brother 2: Okay, so the bad side is his parents can’t do an open casket today. Good side? He doesn’t have to suffer through anymore Detroit Lions games. We better trade Calvin to a winner before Megatron follows suit.
Brother 3: Are you kidding? Without him, Stafford would be lost in the shotgun. You know, like…
Brother 1: Get help. Do you two really have to make a joke out of everything? He died literally two days ago.
Brother 2: It’s what he would have wanted!
Brother 3: I’m not sure of that. He hated glitter bands.
Brother 2: Bon Jovi’s not a glitter band. He’s a love balladizer.
Brother 1: That’s not a word.
Brother 2: An angel’s smile is what you sell, you promised me heaven, you gave me leukemia.
Brother 1: I’m turning off the radio.
Brother 2: How does one sell an angel’s smile? Unless the angel is, like, a 13-year-old hooker who hides her shame through gritted teeth.
Brother 3: I totally get it now! Jodie Foster played a guardian angel who moonlighted as a prostitute in Taxi Driver. First time I watched that movie, the only thing I could think of was “My God, the horrible things I would do to Ronald Reagan in order to bang an underage Jodie Foster.”
Brother 2: I was never a fan of her. She’s certainly not worth gunning down Reagan over.
Brother 3: I’d kill Reagan to win the love of Pat Benatar.
Brother 2: Hit me with your best shot…
Brother 1: DUDE!
Brother 2: You didn’t let me finish the chorus. In a metaphorical way!
Brother 3: Maybe that’s how Reagan died. Maybe someone injected him with Alzheimer’s to win the love of Pat Benatar.
Brother 2: Bobby De Niro could’ve done exponentially better than Foster. His no-business aura lends itself to an exceptional amount of quality trim. Though I’ll never get why they cast Barbara Streisand in Meet The Fockers.
Brother 3: To hell with it. I’m having a beer.
Brother 1: You’re driving!
Brother 3: There might be some girls at this thing. Need that liquid courage in case there are girls at this mixer.
Brother 1: It’s not a mixer. It’s a funeral.
Brother 3: Take a look at Wedding Crashers. Will Ferrell cleaned up death scenes in that flick like he was Winston Wolf.
Brother 2: When’s that new Tarantino movie coming out?
Brother 3: Not sure. Apparently, the only white people who can say the N-word gratuitously are people in Quentin Tarantino flicks.
Brother 1: I’m not missing my friend’s funeral service because I was preoccupied avoiding sodomy in a jail cell due to you getting a DUI.
Brother 2: Whatever. But you can’t stop us from shotgunning this beer the minute we get to the funeral home.
Brother 1: Can you please stop with the gun references?
Brother 2: Don’t you dare infringe on my Second Amendment rights! Our founding fathers died for our right to exercise those. Hell, he died in the name of exercising the Second Amendment.
Brother 1: He shot himself because he had cancer, you unbelievable jerk.
Brother 2: All I’m sayin’ is that he could’ve easily chosen another, less patriotic way, but he didn’t. Why? Because he loved America. For instance, he could have gotten hammered and drove his Lexus into the campus’s butcher shop. Would’ve been just as instantaneous. And if he survived? He could’ve played it off to his loved ones like red stapler Milton’s “It was an accident” routine.
Brother 1: You’re an idiot.
Brother 3: You really are an idiot. He was kosher. Dying anywhere near a ham would bring great shame upon his family.
Brother 2: Shame upon his family? He wasn’t a samurai.
Brother 1: That’s not why I was calling him an idiot.
Brother 2: No, you two are the idiots. Kosher means, like, saying a prayer to bless the pigs’ hooves.
Brother 1: I know what kosher means.
Brother 2: So you know, then, that he could have easily ran inside the butcher shop beforehand, ordered some salami, sang “Hare Krishna” to his purchase, and presto-bango, you got yourself a fresh batch of holy hot dogs to suicide bomb your car into. IDIOT.
Brother 1: What are we talking about!?! He wasn’t even Jewish!
Brother 3: I bet he shot himself because the Christian fraternity stops serving free Christ dogs once football season’s over.
Brother 1: Pretty sure it was the cancer.
Brother 2: All this talk about repentant swine has got me starving. You think there’s gonna be grub at this?
Brother 1: Where do you think we’re going?
Brother 2: Trust me, I know exactly where we’re going. You’re sitting down for two hours. There’s no breaks unless you slip in a Gatorade bottle to discretely drain your dragon into. And that’s awkward because his grieving aunt is sitting two seats down from you.
Brother 1: Don’t you dare urinate during the middle of a eulogy.
Brother 2: As opposed to hugging the priest with a full-on erection? I went to Catholic school. Been there, done that.
Brother 1: Is it that hard for you to have a little self-control?
Brother 2: It’s going to be a hell of a lot harder if I don’t find a urinal.
Brother 3: He’s talking about his downstairs.
Brother 1: I got that.
Brother 3: Because the built-up urine.
Brother 1: Yes, I know.
Brother 3: Because he was making a pun.
Brother 1: …
Brother 2: Stand up, sit down. Stand up, sit down. Wait in line, pretend to cry as you’re actually trying to clench in a fart. The least they could do is serve some of those extra wafers that are lying around as appetizers.
Brother 3: Can we stop by Qdoba first?
Brother 2: Yeah, c’mon. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.
Brother 1: You two are the worst type of people.
Brother 2: Mmm, Qdoba’s queso. Now that I would totally kill myself for.