The writers all sat in a room. It was late at night, and they, on uncomfortably rickety chairs, pondered what to collaboratively pen for an elegy for their deceased friend's funeral.

"English Professor Ethel Binder died on Saturday, She will be sorely missed," said Emily Shelley, her blue dress and hair all neat and tidy.

"Minimalism will get you nowhere," said Hugo Dickens, a stout man with a huge beard, "Write more about his childhood. It will give the speech historical depth."

"Oh, that's fucking bullshit," snorted Bill Burrows, frowning, "You're both fucking wrong. It'd be a shitty speech if you did that. Write something interesting—something about his sex life would do."

"No sense! It'd be as like a driedup riverrun. Tell a symboltale!" said joyce cummings. His glasses shone in the light of the bulb overhead.

"Exactly my tittyfucking point! It's like that asshole Freud said—it's about liberation of the id and sex and all that shit," Burrows agreed.

"No, nyet, nix! ‘Tis about Jung, people," corrected cummings.

"Yes! You understand—childhood history gives it importance!" said Hugo.

"I think he means Jung the psychologist," said Emily.

"Stupid bitch! He means young people fucking up each other's asses," yelled Burrows.

"C’est ridicule!" said cummings.

"I concur," Emily said in agreement.

"Your mother concurred to me last night," Burrows implied.

"Don't go all Oedipal on me, you...you perversion of nature!" burst out Emily.

"And fucking proud of it," chortled Burrows.

"Now let's all be reasonable here. As the Age of Reason's famous—," Hugo began.

"The age of reason is dead! Vive la Chao!" Burrows let loose in a battle-cry.

"Now, see here! History teaches us—," said Hugo seriously.

"Lies," interjected Burrows. He continued, "I'm fucking bored. Fuck this shit."

He took a needle out of his pants pocket, injected it in his scabby left arm, and fell asleep with a sigh of addled content as the other three looked on in weary disgust.

"Feck him, the bloody mater," said cummings.

"Amen," responded Hugo, "and speaking of which, shouldn't we add a prayer for the dearly deceased? The cathedrals, the chapels, even the defunct European convents did so. It would be a shame to have funeral without a proper service."

"I don't believe in God," said Emily, "It's all mankind, good and evil."

"Plusmore, can't spell funeral without to spell fun!" quarked cummings.

Burrows awoke at this comment, and laughed, "Yes! Another good one!"

"Go back to sleep, accursed abomination!" said Emily angrily.

But he already was.

"It's getting late," said Hugo, "we should head to bed."

"Tomorrow's the funeral though!" said Emily.

"But no sleep equals bad thoughts, grumpydumpy!" said cummings.

"Agreed," said Emily.

"Nightynacht, sleepyzzz," said cummings.

The three walked out of the room, leaving Burrows behind.

After he was sure they were gone, Burrows got up out of his mock-stupor, and began to write furiously. There were still "fucks" to put in the speech and shit to do. The funeral was tomorrow, after all.