Weekend at Bernie's

Things came to a head as they often do and it's time for me to flee the country. I know what you're thinking - What could he have done? I could send you through a loop of half-truths and over-exaggerations, which is, of course, in my nature, but this time I thought I'd come clean.

I'm fleeing the country due to some inflammatory things I said at the wake the other day, including but not limited to:

What say we grab a crowbar and pop this box open and see what's what?

Should we bury him at sea like that terrorist Bin Laden? How do we know they already didn't? I'll get the hose.

I think when we finally crack that Cracker Jack box open we should reenact Weekend at Bernie's.

What's in the box! What's in the box!?

Needless to say, I'll need to scram post-haste. Strangely, though, his family seemed okay with all the strange talk coming from our degenerate collective in the back of the parking lot. They didn't even flinch when Zac kicked me square in the balls out of revenge for that time I stabbed him... It was the funeral director and his hired goons who were grilling us as we tailgated. They seemed to take umbrage to our panache and gumption, and I'm not one to stick around too long after insulting someone who's in the business of hiding bodies.