One of the cemetery workers stopped by my grave today to admire my bloddy, fly-ridden lawn ornament.
"Well, how about that," he muttered, and stumbled off.
Maybe it's me, but if I saw the shredded remains of an animal laying atop a new grave, "how about that," wouldn't be coming from my mouth. A jet stream of vomit and horrified obsenities, perhaps. But I don't know I'd pass it off with the same curious but distant interest as seeing a shaving razor with three blades that lift and cut for the first time.
On the bright side, the yapping died down with the sunrise. I've been on hold with Afterlife, Inc.'s customer support for about three hours, though, 'cause I wanna ask them about it. The computerized voice just chimed in and said the estimated wait time if 29 hours. Normally I'd be pissed off but, eh. What the Hell else have I got to do?