The Funeral Crashers
When two out-of-luck misfits become professional funeral crashers, their desperate bid for cash turns into a riotous string of disasters. As they stumble through grieving families, fake eulogies, and public scandal, Danny and Ginny must learn to laugh in the face of failure—and maybe find meaning in the madness. A dark comedy about death, friendship, and the business of mourning.
Ashes to Ashes, Gags to Giggles
Danny stood outside his apartment, fumbling with his keys, peering into the fishbowl-lit gloom. The world, which had once ignored him with such satisfying indifference, now watched his every stumble with popcorn and glee. Across the street, the bodega guy waved his phone. Danny made out the faint chant—“Funeral fraudster!”—from the video playing, savagely looped, on YouTube.
Ginny, half-hidden in a scarf that was less camouflage than crisis-management, trudged beside him. “That’s, what, the seventh time today?”
“Ninth, if you count the lady at Starbucks who asked if I’d ‘cry for her muffin’s tragic loss.’”
Ginny barked a laugh, then quickly muffled it. “You’ve got to admit, Danny, we went viral. Just—y’know, the wrong kind.”
They entered the apartment. It smelled, as usual, of burnt coffee and existential dread. The table was littered with bills (unpaid), newspaper clippings (unflattering), and one wilted funeral bouquet with a card: “Nice try! – The Markham Family Legal Counsel.”
The TV flickered with a morning show segment. The hosts looked severely cheerful:
“And in today’s viral fails, the notorious ‘Funeral Crashers’—yes, that’s what they called themselves—were escorted from Edith Markham’s funeral in what can only be described as a masterclass in public shaming!”
“They say death is the great equalizer, but apparently so is humiliation!”
Danny slumped onto the couch. Ginny perched beside him, knees to her chin.
Fallout: Mourners Without a Cause
Danny deleted the website first. Well, tried. His password, never memorable on a good day, betrayed him. Ginny watched over his shoulder, texting with a wild-eyed fervor.
“Client list—do we warn them?” she asked, brow furrowed, equal parts guilt and mischief.
Danny sighed, scrolling their booking spreadsheet. “Half of these people used fake names. One guy just wrote ‘Mr. M’ and sent emoji instructions.”
They sent a vague apology email: ‘To whom it may concern. Deepest apologies for any unintended distress, scandal, or overly dramatic sobbing at your loved one’s send-off. Regretfully, the business is now deceased. You may send flowers to our landlord.’
Almost instantly, responses trickled in. Some, genuinely peeved: “My mother’s urn rotated at the news.” Others, oddly grateful: “Best shiva I’ve ever hosted. Hope you land on your feet.” A few, Ginny screenshot for later: “You two are legends. Ever crashed a wedding?”
Surviving the Local Rotisserie
Public backlash was less elegant than Twitter predicted—a stew of ridicule, angry DMs, and schadenfreude-laden memes. Ginny’s face—mascara streaming, mouth open mid-wail—was now the mascot for “Monday Mood.” Danny’s hunched form, clutching a funeral program, captioned: “Me hoping my boss doesn’t notice I’ve quit.”
Their phones buzzed with everything: hate, threats, interview requests, and, weirdly, someone offering to option their story for a true-crime podcast called “Paid to Cry.”
Family weighed in. Danny’s mom called twice, an Olympian in passive disappointment. “Not what your father had in mind when he said make an impression.”
Ginny’s brother left a voicemail: “What the actual hell? Also, Aunt Roz wants your autograph for her book club.”
Gallows Humor
Danny paced the apartment. “Should we move? Grow beards? Enroll in Witness Protection?”
Ginny peered out the window. “We could fake our own deaths. Again. This time, cremation. No trace.”
He tried not to smile. “The world doesn’t care as much as we think. Next week, a llama will photobomb a First Lady’s memorial, and we’ll be yesterday’s clickbait.”
A silence, deeper than anything they’d known since this oafish adventure began, settled between them.
Ginny broke it. “Do you regret it?”
Danny looked at her. “Only the accent. Never again.”
She snorted, swatted his leg. “I’m serious.”
He was quiet, then: “If you forget the shame, the press, the lawyer-pinned note? It was… kind of brilliant. We made funerals something people still talk about. Even if it’s while pelting us with sausage rolls.”
She nodded. “And you—always said you wanted to matter. Even if—y’know, accidentally.”
Bittersweet Amends
After three days indoors, they ventured out for groceries. At the corner store, Mrs. Dalloway herself ambushed them, still in peacock plumage.
“Dearest frauds!” she announced. “You made Clive’s funeral so memorable I caught a second husband’s eye. For that, eternally grateful. Would you like cake?”
Danny, startled, attempted to fade into the shelf of discount cereal. Ginny pulled herself together, stammered out a thank you. Mrs. Dalloway—oblivious, unbothered—winked, then glided away.
“See?” Ginny whispered. “Not everyone’s angry. Some people loved us. Or at least—loved the show.”
At checkout, the cashier gave them a double take, then shrugged. “Hey, you’re those funeral weirdos. Do you want your receipt with that? ’Cause I’ve been dying to ask.”
They took the bag, dignity bruised but functional, and walked home in companionable defeat.
Reconciliation by Laugh-Track
That night, Danny made popcorn. Ginny (blatantly hiding a new can of eyeliner) flopped beside him in front of the TV.
“So what now?” she asked. “I’m not cut out for influencer infamy. And you… can’t exactly eulogize this phase of our lives back into oblivion.”
He considered. “Maybe we apply at that temp agency again. Tell them about our experience facilitating social... catharsis?”
Ginny giggled. “We could start a Yelp for funerals. Four stars, great seating, too few finger sandwiches.”
Danny grinned. “Or we write a self-help book. ‘How To Fail Publicly and Still Get Free Cake.’”
She tossed popcorn at him. “Promise me we’ll never do pets’ funerals again. I still have cat hair in places I can’t name.”
He mock-swore. “On my future grave.”
The shadows flickered around them, calm at last. The sting of humiliation receded, replaced by something weightier—and lighter—than notoriety: a kind of relief.
Ginny spoke, voice tender. “Maybe that’s all we ever got right, Danny. We made people feel something. Even if it wasn’t what they hired us for.”
He looked at her, honest for once. “And we showed up for each other. Even when we shouldn’t have.”
Epilogue of the Inconveniently Alive
They let the quiet settle—miraculously, it stayed. The Internet would move on. So would they.
Danny nudged the popcorn bowl toward Ginny. “I’m just glad we’re still here. And that, for once, nobody expects us to cry on cue.”
Ginny snorted. “Speak for yourself. I’ll probably still cry at the phone bill.”
He laughed—loud, unguarded, the sound of someone finally surrendering to the farce.
They watched the sunrise together from the apartment window, two slightly infamous, more-than-slightly ridiculous misfits. There would be, without doubt, more disasters ahead. But for now, this moment was enough.
And if, someday, someone needed one more loud, ill-advised laugh at the edge of life’s dark circus, Danny and Ginny would be first in line.