Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!
You've shown ineptitude in the past, but today you've outdone yourself. It was supposed to be a solemn, respectful occasion, something brief, during which we could quietly turn our thoughts to those two out of seven kittens who were crushed underneath boxes of China when the movers got impatient and decided not to look where they were tossing your valuables. Just something to make the kids feel better about it all. But against your wife's wishes, you said, "I'll take care of everything."
Just a brief eulogy would have been fine. "Sorry we never got to know you," and the like. But no, you had to bring the neighbor's aged cat, Morpheus, up to the lectern (where'd you get a lectern?) with you, and you just had pretend that Morpheus was the kittens' mother, throwing your arms around Morpheus' neck and screaming about vengeance for her lost brethren. That was all very cute. Not so cute? Jumping on the kittens' shoebox coffin. When you got back up, the kids could see the shoebox had been crushed, and they were terrified by what they could only imagine was inside that box. Yes, it was very classy of you to hire David Sanborn to play taps when the box was being lowered into the grave. Not so classy: Repeating over and over to the kids that he was charging you $7,000 for the half hour.
It's just a good thing that it's over with. But no one thinks it's cute that you're spending the night outside praying over their grave. Come to bed, asshole.
Happy Worst. Kitten Funeral. Ever. Day!