“Ew, ew,” he said.
“We could just bring the urn to the Salvation Army in some little town. Somebody would buy it and put it on the mantel.”
“We could leave it by the side of the road.”
“We could leave it on a golf course.”
“We could dump it in the Pine Barrens.”
We didn't talk for a long time. Somewhere, Pierce pulled over at a gas station. We sat silent and still while the attendant pumped. Super Unleaded, our father's grade. While Pierce was paying I got out and put the urn in the trunk, wedged between a plastic milk crate full of motor oil and a busted starter motor in a greasy cardboard box. That's where it is today.
While writing this I consulted excellent books on cartooning by Morts Walker and Gerberg. Judy Moffett, thank goodness, made me attend a science fiction conference. For crossing t's and dotting i's, thanks to Rhian, Ed, Jill, Andy G and Julie; for their ongoing dirty work thanks to Lisa and Jeff. Thank you Ruben Bolling for your fine photography, and boosters Ruden, Prose, Bukiet, Spencer and the Art Museum of Missoula. I am grateful to all Riverheadbangers and to dispersed West Phunnydelphians Lee Ann, Andy C, Host, Kevin, Shauna, Luggage, Biscuit, Kristen, R.C. Thanks to every card, clown, ham, wag and cutup I've ever known, who ought to have the good humor to forgive me for not naming them. And finally I must thank my family, who provided me with God's gift to comedy, New Jersey.
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