SL/10–your story reminded me of one my grandfather used to tell. He made The Run into Oklahoma as a baby and swore his father used to tell it. I always assumed it was a joke but was never sure:

Back in Arkansas, in a small hill community, there was a town drunk, a total wreck and reprobate who frightened children, insulted decent women, and made a spectacle of himself daily.

One day he died and, as was the custom, the leading men of the community took up a collection and purchased part of the cost of a cheap coffin from the undertaker, who donated the rest himself.

They formed a small procession up to the charity part of the graveyard, placed the coffin in the grave, then stood back. At this point, it was the custom to speak some kind words about the deceased and generally think about his or her life.

They stood there in silence. After a long pause it became uncomfortably clear that none of them could think of a single favorable thing to say about the departed alcoholic.

Finally the town barber shuffled his feet and cleared his throat: “Well,” he said with some hesitation, “he wasn’t a hard man to shave.”