Unfortunately Dad’s Aunt Rita died last Wednesday, so not only did we have to deal with Eugene’s funeral, but we had to give some thought to Rita and her final rites. Poor Aunt Rita didn’t pick the best time to die, because I don’t think that any of us had any tears left to cry for her. Regardless, I still came back down for her wake and funeral after work on Friday. My only memory of Aunt Rita was stopping at her trailer when I was a kid when we were on our way back to Halifax. She must have been concerned about her health, because I remember being there and driving her stationary bicycle while watching TV and teasing her dog (which would later come back to bite me in the face, but I can’t say that I didn’t deserve it). I think that we were all a little tired, and didn’t really feel like going through with yet another funeral, but there we were anyways. Our priest was a young man, with what at first sounded like a little bit of an accent. As the funeral progressed, I began to realize that it was much more than a little accent…this man had a very strong polish accent. He was speaking very slooooooow, and pronounced. For some strange reason, I found this hilarious. Thankfully I wasn’t the only one; as we were leaving the church, my Aunt W. turned to me and said “I don’t know about you, but for some reason I don’t think that Aunt Rita wants to be gritted by anyone, even the lord”. Of course, being the hillbillies that we are, we both busted out laughing at this little exchange. We got the look from the more civilized people of our family, but it was still funny. We made our way up to the burial site, reformed and determined to act more appropriately from now on. The priest was by the casket, waiting to finish this up so he could go and get his cup of tea at the reception following the service. And so he began: Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and telling Rita to Rest in Piss. I could see Aunt W. looking at me through the corner of my eye. I had to physically turn my head and look out towards the ocean in order to prevent myself from busting out into hysterical laughter. I stood there, hoping and praying that the poor priest wouldn’t say Peace again, but of course he did. As soon as we were able, Aunt W. and I booted ‘er to the car to sit there and laugh our asses off like two teenagers. Rest in Piss Aunt Rita, Rest in Piss.