I wonder if my hair is long enough that you could make a sweater out of it.
Here lies Spud. Oh ho, and what a spud.
My other epitaph is much nicer.
Death by microwaved meatloaf. Damn it was a good run though, ya’ll.
If a train leaves New Brunswick at 440mph, and another train leaves cause yo mama so fat … How bout that? Insulted by an epitpah.
I hope the Hindus have it right, and that I wasn’t an asshole.
Dig me up, I bet I’m good eating!
Go to the nearest store. Buy a Sprite. Pour it on my gravesite. All of it. When someone yells, ‘HEY! Quit that! Why? Why would you disrespect the dead?!?’ Then you look them square in the eyes and say, ‘out of Sprite.’
Beloved Father, Mother, Husband, Daydreamer, Con Artist, Craft Whiskey Brewer, Liar, and Chicken Pox Survivor. Also great with those balloons you can make into animals.
I donated my internal organs to science, and my external holes to the weirdos. Eat your heart out, necrophiliacs!
Somewhere near you is my soul, making fart noises with my mouth while mooning you. Smell that? It’s me. That last noise wasn’t from my mouth.
I should’ve eaten more foods that were shaped like famous buildings.