There once was a man from Alabama He was a nice fellow. An unsophisticated hillbilly type but amicable to be around nonetheless.
He was known as Catfish Jeb around the bayou because of that one time a catfish bit him in the . . .
Well, where the catfish bit him isn’t important, now is it?
One day, very tragically, Catfish Jeb’s wife and sister died. A terrible hunting accident where he was mistaken and thought he was shooting at a deer.
Beyond distraught, Catfish Jeb hurried home to his cabin and called up his church’s preacher, Bill.
Bill answered his phone right away, greeting happily in that church way.
Despite the cheeriness, Catfish Jeb was in tears as he told the preacher what happened. “Ma wife and sis’ta are ded, Billy,” he blubbered.
Bill was a little miffed; he hated being called Billy. But with the light of God always shining down upon him, he forgave Catfish Jeb the instant the misname left his lips.
“I am terrible sorry to hear that, Jeb,” the preacher consoled.
On the phone, Bill and Catfish Jeb arranged a funeral for the bumpkin’s wife and sister to be held at the church. It was to take place that Sunday, right before the bake sale.
They planned the flowers, the music. Bill agreed to have someone make pamphlets on the grieving redneck’s behalf.
“One last thing, Joe,” Bill said, pen poised in hand.
Catfish Jeb wiped at his eyes. “Yessa, preacher-man sir?” he simpered.
The preacher man pursed his lips. “Will you be needing one coffin, of two?”