Dead-pan Humor

Living next to a cemetery, and having a decidedly skewed sense of humor, often provides Mrs. Cat and me wholly inappropriate amusement.

For instance, we saw a procession leave the funeral home across from the cemetery, and rather than make a simple right-hand turn to get into the graveyard, they took a very circuitous route around the entire neighborhood to come in at the lower entrance.
“Wonder why they made it so complicated, and blocked progress on six streets instead of just one,” I mused.
“Must’ve been a politician,” she replied.

Then there was the couple we saw wandering up and down the grounds sort of randomly.
“I would have sworn we put her right here,” said Mrs. Cat.
“Beside the black marble headstone? I thought we were closer to the crypt than that,” I supplied.
“Yeah, don’t you remember? There was a big pile of dirt nearby… I don’t see it anymore, though.”
“Look, just stick the flowers anywhere. Who’s gonna know? Shirl’s past caring, and I’m freezing my ass off. We’ll tell your mom we had a nice visit. Come on; let’s go get some tacos.”

One night we heard a small aircraft flying close by, with what sounded like engine trouble.
“Hope they don’t come down next door,” Mrs. Cat said.
Me, switching to announcer voice: “Authorities have recovered 217 bodies so far, and that number is expected to climb as the night goes on. The pilot and passenger of the craft are assisting in the recovery efforts.”

In the event we had to kill an intruder:
“Would we really have to call the cops?” she wondered. “I mean, we’ve got a garden.”
“I think someone would notice if you dug up the rosebushes all of a sudden.”
“Well I’m not going to put them in our freezer. Ick.”
“With all the empty graves we have to choose from? Dexter would be so disappointed in you.”
“Oh! Good idea!”

On trying to wake me up in the morning:
“If you’re going to be that hard to wake up, you should be sleeping next door.”

On her birthday present:
Me, looking next door: “You like flowers, don’t you?”
“You’re sick. And a cheapskate.”

During the last storm, the house across from us was having some electrical issues, with lights flipping on and off. The house is empty, and the lights are on timers to discourage vandalism/theft. Apparently the storm had messed up their timing, so it was quite the light show. I was staring at it, trying to figure out the pattern (don’t you say a word), when Mrs. Cat grabbed me by the shoulders and mock yelled “You only moved the headstones!”

We were discussing how much safer we felt in this neighborhood as compared to our last one, when Mrs. Cat said “except for the coming zombie apocalypse, of course. When that happens, we are so screwed.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I imagine it’s like living next to a prison. If someone escapes, their first thought is to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. They’re not going to stop in for a chat.”
“Would zombies think that way, though?” she asked. “Or would they want a snack before they go shambling around?”
“Not sure. That’s why we have the shotgun.”
“Did you load it with salt?”
“Of course not. I’m not trying to season them, for God’s sake.”