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Seeing that individual with a blunt in his mouth and a casket with a black interior, inspired me to dredge up a few mortuary memories. Some of these stories may be reposts of other stories that vanished long ago.

I wrote about a motorcycle gang funeral a while back. The deceased finished a poor second in a quick draw contest with a rival biker gang member. The funeral was a free for all, including: full liquor bottles, weed and other afterlife necessities. On the day of the funeral, several VERY hung over or still high bikers surrounded me in front of the casket. I figured that they were going to beat me to death for some unknown reason. "We want to put something in the casket." "Gentlemen, as long as it doesn't explode, I have no problem with that."

The bikers pulled out what appeared to be a biker's vest and patch and something metallic in a brown paper bag, that clanked when it hit the foot panel on the inside of the casket. I went ahead and "locked" the casket and dutifully handed over the key to the "president of the club." A few days later, a member of the gang responsible for their associate's untimely demise, was discovered shot to death and dumped in the nearby Angeles Forrest. For health reasons, I never even thought about calling the cops.

Soon after that biker event, the company that I worked for made me the official "Biker Funeral Director." A huge biker, with a 10-12 inch Afro and a beard going down to the middle of his chest, flew off his bike at about 80 mph and his back hit a guardrail. The burly biker's "normie" family showed up and demanded that their son be planted with a "decent" haircut, shave and a regular suit.

On the evening of the viewing, all of his biker buddies showed up in various levels of chemical degradation. Within a minute of entering the viewing room, amid ear bleeding profanity, several bikers rushed into my office. They stated, in substance, that they wanted to KILL ME for cutting their "brother's" hair and beard and putting him in a suit. About the time my life was flashing before my eyes, the biker's parents walked into the office and told me how wonderful he looked and thanked me profusely. Mom and dad saved me from a serious beat down...at the least. Giving me the stink eye and muttering threats, the bikers went out to the parking lot to get drunker and higher.

The graveside service was epic! After the family left and took most of the civilians with them, the bikers outdid themselves. Huge quantities of beer and hard liquor were consumed. Dope was smoked and biker chicks had an impromptu "Fake Tit Competition." Several of the bikers elected to get rid of unwanted used beer, directly into the open grave. The cemetery staff was terrified and DEMANDED that I deal with a batch of drunk, high and naughty bikers. I declined their opportunity for a beat down and stood back and watched the merriment.

We received a young gangster that walked out of Folsom Prison in Northern California, following a 5-year stretch in the rest home took his "gate money", walked into a pawn shop, bought a 22 pistol and a box of ammo. He walked to the nearest vacant lot and shot himself in the right temple. There was no exit wound but there was an ear-to-ear autopsy incision and a jagged hole from the entrance wound. My challenge was that the departed had about 1/4th inch of hair covering his head. I had to figure out a way to cover that wound.

I wound up cutting some pubic hair and cutting the hair again, just below where it starts to curl and "mounting it into the bullet hole. Two things of note here: 1. Mexicans are NEVER on time for anything, there is no exception for funerals. 2. Mexicans are VERY morbidly curious and will go to extreme effort to see and/or have contact with a dead body.

Much to my amazement, 20 minutes before the viewing was scheduled to start, I heard that all too familiar sound like 20 cats being burned alive. All of the deceased's homies, relatives and morbidly curious showed up to gawk at the corpse. I stood back and despite all of their efforts, they couldn't find the bullet hole. Most wandered out into the parking lot to drown their sorrows with beer and Tequila. Out of pure frustration, a few of the hard core that had been poking and prodding the deceased's melon, walked over to me. "Where's the bullet hole, eh?" "Gee folks, I don't know, that's the way he was when he got here." It was like having your TV break down during the 4th quarter of the Super Bowl. Sad and dejected, they wandered out into the parking lot for libations.

I had a funeral for a black gangster. Normally, Blacks try to avoid being around dead bodies if at all possible. This gangster had taken a full shotgun blast, at close range to his torso. I set up the viewing in the mortuary chapel and let the family in to view the departed. I returned after a few minutes to check with the family, much to my dismay, person or persons. had pulled his jacket back, opened his buttoned dress shirt, pulled the T shirt up to his armpits and made a poor attempt to open the wrappings on the chest wounds. So, with an audience of 20 people, elbow to elbow with me, I had to redress the guest of honor.

During my 22 years as a funeral director/embalmer, I have put all sorts of items into caskets. I had a very bitter old man place a beautiful diamond watch on his wife's wrist prior to burial. The grandchildren had placed a bouquet of flowers in the casket head panel. The widower mentioned that he MAY want to ship his wife to a family plot in a cemetery back east. With that information, I suggested that the flowers be removed because they would create a lot of mold in the casket. He responded with a resounding "NO."

Fast forward one year. Gramps spent a huge amount of money to have his wife disinterred, to be shipped. I embalmed the body, so I wasn't concerned about preservation. Dad insisted that he be present when the casket was brought to the funeral home. Prior to the family's arrival I opened the casket, mom's face and hands were covered with a foul-smelling mold. Long story short and about 2 hours later, I ushered the family into our garage for a quick viewing, that dad demanded.

He walked up the casket pulled the sleeve back on her left arm, saw the diamond watch was still there, told me to close the casket and take it back to the local cemetery. This old asshole spent a year thinking I stole his wife's watch. I suggested he take it home... "No, it's hers."

These little stories are just scratching the surface of my fetid mind. If you have questions or topics you would like to have me answer, let me know.