Leave ’em laughing when you go

Earl Fowler

I didn’t know George Ferguson. I’m glad I never lent him money.

But I wish we’d knocked back a Guinness or two. And I beaucouply enjoyed the obituary that his daughter ran in the Victoria Times Colonist for the man a decade ago. It was the sort of sendoff everyone should get instead of the usual monotonous tripe listing the deceased’s relatives and that de rigueur plea that mourners please support this or that charity instead of sending flowers:

FERGUSON, George What to say about George? Certainly, no one could accuse him of having been a loving son, brother, or father. He’d gladly have stolen the shirt off your back and he was generous to a fault with other people’s money. Was he a small-time con-man with grandiose schemes? Probably. But another view of him is that he was the most exciting member of his family and of the families he married into. He was a poor man’s rhetorician who beguiled certain women into buying into his promises and dreams. This latter view is lent some support by the fact that he was a United Church minister who passionately improvised sermons for congregations in Quesnel, Barkerville, Bella Bella, Greenwood, Nipawin, Sask., and Kelowna. It is impossible to say whether or not George was actually religious. Anyway, God’s name rarely came up when George was flush.

George eventually became one of Oak Bay’s characters. In the 1970s, he was an owner of the Blethering Place, along with his second wife, Janet. They also started the Old Blighty on Oak Bay Ave. They owned an antique store on the corner of Oak Bay and Foul Bay and they even had an auction, at which George was notable for having a parrot on his shoulder. One of his best stories was about being in his car with his new friend Chris in the seat beside him when it was suddenly surrounded by heavily armed police officers. This was the beginning of the famous Rocancourt arrest scene of 2001. Some of George’s favourite watering holes were the Oak Bay Beach Hotel, the Oak Bay Golf Club, and the Marina. Of late, George had to travel to and from these places on his senior’s scooter, which he drove as recklessly — and sometimes as drunkenly — as he had driven his cars in earlier years.

George was always an optimist about his future. Right up until the aftermath of his last surgery, he hoped that he could get into sufficiently good shape to charm another woman into supporting him, or perhaps invent something that would make him a billionaire or maybe even win the lottery! He never complained about his later lot in life, living cheerfully in a small apartment that was just barely on the right side of the Tweed Curtain.

While George did not live well by some people’s lights, it should be universally accepted that he did die well. In hospital, two days beforehand, he said he’d finished with the medical procedures he had been avidly seeking for the past few years; he said he was ‘checking out’. He was completely calm and committed to the decision. The next day, we brought in some beer, toasted his life with him, drank with him, and helped him to make several thoughtful good-bye phone calls. He reminisced a bit and gave us a few unhelpful instructions. He died without pain the next evening, from a slow gastric bleed, with his wits about him and a light heart.

Turns out, his timing was impeccable: the next day we found out that he had been racking up ominous bank and credit card debts. Clearly, those supplemental incomes were about to dry up. In earlier years, George would sometimes slip out of a town after he had accumulated local debts and after the relevant woman’s purse had been snapped shut. But of late, he was in no condition to skip town. And women just don’t see old men on scooters as the stuff of their dreams — they see them as impending burdens. Perhaps George felt cornered. Perhaps he thought that, under his present circumstances, dying was the only way out. Whatever the story, no one can deny that George made his final exit with style and grace.

Christophe Rocancourt, a French imposter and confidence man arrested in Victoria in 2001, was — and presumably remains — a much worse scoundrel than small-potatoes George Ferguson ever pretended to be. There’s a fascinating Wikipedia entry on Rocancourt if you’re interested; even if you’re not. He was the inspiration for a Law & Order: Criminal Intent episode and his official biopic was released at Cannes this year.

But that’s not germane to today’s topic, i.e., obituaries that pander — as the great musical satirist Tom Lehrer might have put it (and did, only he was singing about smut) — to my taste for candour.

You can keep your accolades, your panegyrics, your paeans and encomiums. To me, the only tributes that matter  — and it doesn’t much matter whether they are written by a relative, a friend or the dearly departed — meet two simple criteria: They are honest and they are hilarious. The sorts of things we laugh about at wakes and funerals for the people we loved. The stuff that makes us really love them still.

As English novelist and onetime “bright young thing” Nancy Mitford noted in a letter when she was dying of a particularly gruesome cancer (Hodgkin’s disease) half a century ago, “There is always something to laugh at.”

Which is why rummaging around in the internet for amusing obits is such an entertaining pursuit. Here’s a commonly cited one from 2015:

James “Jim” Groth made his last wildly inappropriate and probably sarcastic comment on July 28th.

Jim was born and immediately dubbed “our favorite child” to John and Joan Groth in March of 1963.Their constant love, support, caring far exceeded anything Jim deserved.

He is survived by his wife of 25 years, the recently wealthy and overly devoted Julie, and his proudest accomplishments: sons Brandon John, Blake Isa, and Brett James. Additionally he is survived by his much older sister Lisa Dickman of whythehelldoyoulivethere Rhode Island and younger Brother John Groth of West Palm Beach. Fla. Jim’s demise will now allow them to emerge from his shadow. A variety of nieces and nephews with mediocre upbringings would complete the list of those left to embellish his memory.

Jim’s employment history was standard: College recruiter, Oyster Shucker, YMCA executive director, and for the past 16 years Industrial Construction Project Management. He had two basic philosophies regarding work: “careers are for the unimaginative,” and, “surround yourself with great people and stay the hell out of their way.”

His 30 plus years as a volunteer soccer coach from the kindergarten to High school level afforded hundreds of children and parents exposure to Jim’s unique personality. Half a dozen or so of these folks might speak of him fondly if pressed.

Jim died knowing that Monty Python and the Holy Grail was the best movie ever. Bruce Springsteen best recording artist, Clint Eastwood the baddest man on the planet, and that chicks dig El Caminos.

His regrets were few but include eating a rotisserie hot dog from a convenience store in the summer of 2002, not training his faithful dog Rita to detect cancer, and that no video evidence exists of his prowess on the soccer field or in the bedroom.

Although a less than average lifespan, Jim did not live an average life. He traveled where he wanted to travel, laughed inappropriately at every chance, learned what he wanted to learn, fix what he wanted to fix and loved who he wanted to love.

Cremation will take place at the family’s convenience, and his ashes will be kept around as long as they match the décor.

Best ending ever. Though I kind of dig this one as well, which any NFL fan would appreciate (and just to be clear, I am using “dig” in the 1950s hipster, non-cemeterial sense):

Scott E. Entsminger, 55, of Mansfield, died Thursday, July 4, 2013 at his residence.

Born January 8, 1958, in Columbus, Ohio, he was the son of William and Martha (Kirkendall) Entsminger. He retired from General Motors after 32 years of service. He was an accomplished musician, loved playing the guitar and was a member of the Old Fogies Band.

A lifelong Cleveland Browns fan and season ticket holder, he also wrote a song each year and sent it to the Cleveland Browns as well as offering other advice on how to run the team. He respectfully requests six Cleveland Browns pallbearers so the Browns can let him down one last time. …

Here’s a delightfully inculpatory selfie, which makes the gut punch of regret at the end all the more affecting:

Val “Rocky” Patterson: I was Born in Salt Lake City, March 27th 1953. I died of Throat Cancer on July 10th 2012. I went to six different grade schools, then to Churchill, Skyline and the U of U. I loved school, Salt Lake City, the mountains, Utah.

I was a true Scientist. Electronics, chemistry, physics, auto mechanic, wood worker, artist, inventor, business man, ribald comedian, husband, brother, son, cat lover, cynic. I had a lot of fun. It was an honor for me to be friends with some truly great people. I thank you. I’ve had great joy living and playing with my dog, my cats and my parrot. But, the one special thing that made my spirit whole, is my long love and friendship with my remarkable wife, my beloved Mary Jane.

I loved her more than I have words to express. Every moment spent with my Mary Jane was time spent wisely. Over time, I became one with her, inseparable, happy, fulfilled. I enjoyed one good life. Traveled to every place on earth that I ever wanted to go. Had every job that I wanted to have. Learned all that I wanted to learn. Fixed everything I wanted to fix. Eaten everything I wanted to eat. My life motto was: “Anything for a Laugh”. Other mottos were “If you can break it, I can fix it”, “Don’t apply for a job, create one”. I had three requirements for seeking a great job; 1 – All glory, 2 – Top pay, 3 - No work.

Now that I have gone to my reward, I have confessions and things I should now say. As it turns out, I AM the guy who stole the safe from the Motor View Drive Inn back in June 1971. I could have left that unsaid, but I wanted to get it off my chest.

Also, I really am NOT a PhD. What happened was that the day I went to pay off my college student loan at the U of U, the girl working there put my receipt into the wrong stack, and two weeks later, a PhD diploma came in the mail. I didn’t even graduate, I only had about 3 years of college credit. In fact, I never did even learn what the letters “PhD” even stood for. For all of the Electronic Engineers I have worked with, I’m sorry, but you have to admit my designs always worked very well, and were well engineered, and I always made you laugh at work.

Now to that really mean Park Ranger; after all, it was me that rolled those rocks into your geyser and ruined it. I did notice a few years later that you did get Old Faithful working again. To Disneyland — you can now throw away that “Banned for Life” file you have on me, I’m not a problem anymore — and SeaWorld San Diego, too, if you read this.

To the gang: We grew up in the very best time to grow up in the history of America. The best music, muscle cars, cheap gas, fun kegs, buying a car for “a buck a year” — before Salt Lake got ruined by overpopulation and Lake Powell was brand new. TV was boring back then, so we went outside and actually had lives. We always tried to have as much fun as possible without doing harm to anybody — we did a good job at that. …

My regret is that I felt invincible when young and smoked cigarettes when I knew they were bad for me. Now, to make it worse, I have robbed my beloved Mary Jane of a decade or more of the two of us growing old together and laughing at all the thousands of simple things that we have come to enjoy and fill our lives with such happy words and moments. My pain is enormous, but it pales in comparison to watching my wife feel my pain as she lovingly cares for and comforts me. I feel such the “thief” now — for stealing so much from her — there is no pill I can take to erase that pain.

If you knew me or not, dear reader, I am happy you got this far into my letter. I speak as a person who had a great life to look back on. My family is following my wishes that I not have a funeral or burial. If you knew me, remember me in your own way. If you want to live forever, then don’t stop breathing like I did.

Impeccable advice from the other side. The next one comes with a toast to the morons and mental patients a retired firefighter once esteemed. Except for Bob:

William Ziegler escaped this mortal realm on Friday, July 29, 2016 at the age of 69.  We think he did it on purpose to avoid having to make a decision in the pending presidential election.

He leaves behind four children, five grand-children, and the potted meat industry, for which he was an unofficial spokesman until dietary restrictions forced him to eat real food.

William volunteered for service in the United States Navy at the ripe old age of 17 and immediately realized he didn’t much enjoy being bossed around. He only stuck it out for one war. Before his discharge, however, the government exchanged numerous ribbons and medals for various honorable acts.

Upon his return to the City of New Orleans in 1971, thinking it best to keep an eye on him, government officials hired William as a fireman. After twenty-five years, he suddenly realized that running away from burning buildings made more sense than running toward them. He promptly retired.

Looking back, William stated that there was no better group of morons and mental patients than those he had the privilege of serving with (except Bob; he never liked you, Bob).

Following his wishes, there will not be a service, but well-wishers are encouraged to write a note of farewell on a Schaefer Light beer can and drink it in his honor.

He was never one for sentiment or religiosity, but he wanted you to know that if he owes you a beer, and if you can find him in Heaven, he will gladly allow you to buy him another.  He can likely be found forwarding tasteless internet jokes (check your spam folder, but don’t open these at work).

Expect to find an alcoholic dog named Judge passed out at his feet. Unlike previous times, this is not a ploy to avoid creditors or old girlfriends. He assures us that he is gone. He will be greatly missed.

Speaking of purrfect endings, this one marks two stylish passages into The Great Grawdoo:

Randall Jacobs of Phoenix died at age 65, having lived a life that would have sent a lesser man to his grave decades earlier. His friends called him RJ, but to his family he was Uncle Bunky, a.k.a. The Bunkster. He told his last joke, which cannot be printed here, on May 4th, 2020.

Uncle Bunky burned the candle, and whatever else was handy, at both ends. He spoke in a gravelly patois of wisecracks, mangled metaphors, and inspired profanity that reflected the Arizona dive bars, Colorado ski slopes, and various dodgy establishments where he spent his days and nights. He was a living, breathing “hang loose” sign, a swaggering hybrid of Zoni desert rat, SoCal hobo, and Telluride ski bum.

A prolific purveyor of Bunky-isms such as “Save it, clown!” (or “Zeebo” if he was in a mood), he would mercilessly tease his “goombatz” nephews with nicknames such as “mud flap”" and “style master.” Just days after his beloved cat Kitters passed away, he too succumbed to “The Great Grawdoo”, leaving behind a vapor trail of memories and a piece of sage advice lingering in his loved ones’ ears: “Do what Bunky say. Not what Bunky do.”

For all his chaotic energy and hysterical charm, he had a gentle soul. A night out with Bunky could result in a court summons or a world-class hangover, but his friends and family would drop whatever they were doing to make a trip out to see him. His impish smile and irreverent sense of humor were enough to quell whatever sensibilities he offended. He didn’t mean any harm; that was just Bunky being Bunky.

When the end drew near, he left us with a final Bunkyism: “I’m ready for the dirt nap, but you can’t leave the party if you can’t find the door."

He found the door, but the party will never be the same without him.

In lieu of flowers, please pay someone’s open bar tab, smoke a bowl, and fearlessly carve out some fresh lines through the trees on the gnarliest side of the mountain.

Here’s an eternal change-of-address announcement that ran in the Toronto Star:

Pat Stocks, 94, passed away peacefully at her home in bed July 1, 2015. It is believed it was caused from carrying her oxygen tank up the long flight of stairs to her bedroom that made her heart give out.

She left behind a hell of a lot of stuff to her daughter and sons who have no idea what to do with it. So if you’re looking for 2 extremely large TVs from the 90s, a large ceramic stork (we think) umbrella/cane stand, a toaster oven (slightly used) or even a 2001 Oldsmobile with a spoiler (she loved putting the pedal to the metal), with only 71,000 kilometres and 1,000 tools that we aren’t sure what they’re used for, you should wait the appropriate amount of time and get in touch.

Tomorrow would be fine.

This is not an ad for a pawn shop, but an obituary for a great Woman, Mother, Grandmother and Great-Grandmother born on May 12, 1921, in Toronto, the daughter of the late Pop (Alexander C.) and Granny (Annie Nigh) Morris. She leaves behind a very dysfunctional family that she was very proud of.

Pat was world-renowned for her lack of patience, not holding back her opinion and a knack for telling it like it is. She always told you the truth even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear. It was the school of hard knocks and yes we were told many times how she had to walk for miles in a blizzard to get to school, so suck it up.

With that said she was genuine to a fault, a pussy cat at heart (or lion) and yet she sugar coated nothing. Her extensive vocabulary was more than highly proficient at knowing more curse words than most people learned in a lifetime.

She liked four letter words as much as she loved her rock garden and trust us she LOVED to weed that garden with us as her helpers, when child labour was legal or so we were told. …

She was a master cook in the kitchen. She believed in overcooking everything until it chewed like rubber so you would never get sick because all germs would be nuked. Freezing germs also worked, so by Friday our school sandwiches were hard and chewy, but totally germ free.  

All four of us learned to use a napkin. You would pretend to cough, spit the food into it and thus was born the Stocks diet. If anyone would like a copy of her homemade gravy, we would suggest you don’t. …

She was preceded in death by her loving husband Paul (Moo) Stocks and eldest daughter Shelley (Stocks) Milnes and beloved pets Tag, Tag, Tag and Tag. All who loved her dearly and will never forget her tenacity, wit, charm, grace (when pertinent) and undying love and caring for them. …

A private family ‘Celebration of Life’ will be held, in lieu of a service, due to her friends not being able to attend, because they decided to beat her to the Pearly Gates. Please note her change of address to her new place of residence, St John’s York Mills Anglican Church, 19 Don Ridge Drive, 12 doors away from Shelley’s place.

I particularly like the idea on display in the next one of listing previously deceased body parts. Not to mention the shout-outs to Monty Python’s dead parrot sketch and a venerable Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In chestnut at the end:

Walter George Bruhl Jr. of Newark and Dewey Beach DE is a dead person, he is no more, he is bereft of life, he is deceased, he has wrung down the curtain and gone to join the choir invisible, he has expired and gone to meet his maker.

He drifted off this mortal coil on March 9, 2014, at his home. His spirit was released from his worn out shell of a body and is now exploring the universe.

He was surrounded by his loving wife of 57 years, Helene Sellers Bruhl, who will now be able to purchase the mink coat which he had always refused her because he believed only minks should wear mink, his two sons, their wives, and his four grandchildren.

Walt was preceded in death by his tonsils and adenoids in 1935, a spinal disc in 1974, a large piece of his thyroid gland in 1988, and his prostate on March 27th, 2000. …

There will be no viewing since his wife refuses to honour his request to have him standing in the corner of the room with a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand so that he would appear natural to visitors.

Cremation will take place at the family’s convenience and his ashes will be kept in an urn until they get tired of having it around. What’s a Grecian Urn? Oh, about 200 drachmas a week.

Lives well lived. Lines well written. In lieu of flowers, please read this final goodbye penned by New Brunswick cartoonist Michael DeAdder about his mom:

Margaret Marilyn DeAdder, professional clipper of coupons, baker of cookies, terror behind the wheel, champion of the underdog, ruthless card player, and self-described Queen Bitch, died on Tuesday, January 19, 2021. Marilyn, the oldest of four siblings, was born Marilyn Joyce in 1942, to parents Hannah and Edgar Joyce, in New Glasgow, NS. She grew up in a modest home, which still stands on the top of a hill where the Westville Rd. forks to the Town of Westville in one direction and the old drive-in in the other. Growing up with very little taught her how to turn a dime into a dollar, a skill at which she’d excel her whole life.

Marilyn loved all children who weren’t her own and loved her own children relative to how clean-shaven they were. She excelled at giving the finger, taking no sh!t and laughing at jokes, preferably in the shade of blue. She did not excel at suffering fools, hiding her disdain, and putting her car in reverse.

A voracious reader, she loved true crime, romance novels and the odd political book. Trained as a hairdresser before she was married, she was always doing somebody’s hair in her kitchen, so much so her kitchen smelled of baking and perm solution. Marilyn had a busy life, but no matter what she was doing she always made time to run her kids’ lives as well.

Her lifelong hobbies included painting, quilting, baking, gardening, hiking and arson. Marilyn loved tea and toast. The one thing she loved more than tea and toast was reheated tea and toast. She reheated tea by simply turning on the burner often forgetting about it. She burned many a teapot and caused smoke damage countless times, leaving her kids with the impression that fanning the smoke alarm was a step in brewing tea.

Marilyn liked to volunteer and give back to the community. She was a lifelong volunteer at the Capital Theatre in downtown Moncton, which her sons suspected was her way of seeing all the shows for free. For all of Marilyn’s success in life, her crowning achievement occurred in the mid-to-late eighties, when, left with mounting debt, no job, no car, and no driver’s license, she turned it all around to the point in the early nineties that she had paid down her house, paid cash for all her cars, and got her three boys through university.

Marilyn is survived by her three ungrateful sons Michael (Gail), Paul and David (Trudy), whose names she never got completely right, and whose jokes she didn’t completely understand. She loved them very much, even though at least one of them would ruin Christmas every year by coming home with facial hair, and never forgot that one disastrous Christmas in which all three sons showed up with beards. Everything she did, she did for her sons.

Marilyn is survived by her three granddaughters Meaghan (19), Bridget (16) and Madelyn (5).  While her sons committed unspeakable crimes against humanity, her granddaughters could do no wrong. While her sons grew up on root vegetables and powdered milk (funnelled directly into the bag to hide the fact that it was powdered, fooling nobody), her granddaughters were fed mountains of sugary snacks as far as the eye could see, including her world-famous cookies and cinnamon rolls. Her love for them was unmatched.

Marilyn is survived by her sisters, Melda and Linda, and her brother, Lloyd, who still owes her $600* (*inside family joke – sorry, Lloyd). Marilyn is also survived by an incredible number of close friends, who cannot be named for fear of missing somebody.

Marilyn, ever the penny-pincher, decided to leave this world on the day Moncton went into red-alert, her sons believe, to avoid paying for a funeral. But, on the other hand, she always said that she didn’t want a funeral, she wanted an Irish wake. She didn’t want everybody moping around, she wanted a party. Marilyn will get her celebration of life when COVID-19 is over. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you do something nice for somebody else unexpectedly, and without explanation. We love you, mom, a bushel and a peck. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

In closing, some uplifting words from Johnny Carson that have always meant a lot to me: For three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow … but phone calls taper off.

(Also, Lloyd, in case you happen to come across this: Please send the $600 in small bills, a certified cheque or a money order, and I’ll have George Ferguson drop it off at the family home on his next scooter excursion. Minus expenses, of course. )