I’m almost never invited to funerals anymore. I laugh too much. Psychology says it’s a coping mechanism, my friends insist my dark, nihilistic sense of humor is to blame. I think it’s the bodies. I’ve never understood why a person would want crowds of people gazing at their embalmed husk, distant relatives and former schoolmates shuffling their way past a cushioned casket — a macabre conga line dancing to the sounds of sobs and wails and quiet belching. (Grief wreaks havoc on the gut.)