The Posthumous Praise for Uncle Barnaby

Mildred clutched her lukewarm tea, eyeing the coffin with a mix of dread and professional politeness. "Well," she began, nudging her husband, Arthur, "at least he won't be complaining about the thermostat anymore."

Arthur, ever the pragmatist, grunted. "Or anything else, for that matter. Though I'm sure if he could, he'd find fault with the soil composition."

Aunt Carol, a woman whose smile was perpetually frozen in a rictus of forced cheer, floated over. "Such a peaceful look on his face, isn't it? Like he's finally found a quiet place to… simmer."

Mildred winced. "He certainly had a unique way of engaging with people."

"Unique," Arthur echoed, "in the way a badger is unique when it encounters a garden gnome."

"Oh, come now," Aunt Carol chirped, "he was always very punctual for meals! Never kept anyone waiting for dinner, did he?"

Mildred pondered this. "Only because he'd start eating before everyone else arrived, Aunt Carol."

"See?" Carol beamed, oblivious. "Efficient!"

Arthur leaned in. "I suppose he also left a rather substantial inheritance for the cat. A cat he consistently forgot to feed, mind you, but still. Generosity in absentia."

Mildred stifled a laugh. "Perhaps his greatest quality was his… unwavering consistency in being Barnaby."

"Indeed," Arthur said, taking a sip of his tea. "You always knew where you stood with Barnaby. Usually, somewhere behind a thick wall of his own self-importance, but still. Consistency."

As the eulogies began, a nervous cousin cleared his throat. "Uncle Barnaby… he certainly kept things interesting." The room nodded solemnly, each person silently agreeing that 'interesting' was a polite euphemism for 'unbearably obnoxious.' Mildred just smiled. At least they'd all made it out alive. Most of them, anyway.