For those that read "Bouncing Moonshine" here are a explanation about the perils of uncontrollable boozing and it will a lesson so you wouldn't indulge and wander into the realms of inebriated stupor and stupid smiles...

The missus was up and the smell of the new brewed coffee invaded the porch.
The kitchen door opened and her head popped out to ask for the umpteen time in our married live how I liked my eggs, like I used to change my mind as often as the kinfolk does.
“Sunny down and running over a slice of half toasted rye bread with soft fried beacon strips” I said in one tirade just to annoy her wise ass.
Demonstrative she slammed the door shut, and I didn’t move until the sizzling of the beacon stopped, it bugged her to no end when I came to the breakfast table without being commanded to do so.
“You didn’t come to bed last night” she wasn’t asking she was telling me.
Two could play that game, “just bout’ fifteen minutes ago Marty decided to take is butt home”
“If you alone what you laffin’ at?”
“Remembering, my dear, remembering after seeing old Willard gonna fetchin’ those moonshine mugs”
“Mister Benson out?”
“Why you call that grumping son of a gun Mister for?”
“He’s our neighbors and one should respect our neighbors” she was proper and I ain’t.
“He no neighbor of mine, he just happen to live in the next house of mine” I said.
“Ours”
“Say what?”
“Ours, it is our house, not my house”
“You right no yours house” she found my button.

We started to eat, my way is wolf everything in front as fast as you can before it gets cold and grimy, she would tell me that one must enjoy the meal and eat it using a extended quantity of time, like the Chinese does.
I asked her if she seeing any fat Chinese lately after eating cold food.
“You laughing”
“No, I don’t”
“Yes you laughing out there, maybe it was your beer?” she said it with a sarcastic sweet tone.
“No, it wasn’t the beer” I said, “ I was remembering Bruno’s “the Enforcer” funeral”
“You never told me which part in it was yours or your friends, desecrating God’s house in such a fashion”
“We had nothing to do with it, all was a big misunderstanding due to Ezra’s moonshine”
“Oh?”
“Yes, oh, my gang had nothing to do with anything”
“So tell”
I told her about the cathouse and she done a couple of time the signal of the cross, omitting of course mentioning the “bone” and the subsequent events.
“Bruno “the Enforcer” was more than Paolo could cope as he was too drunk to mess with it anyway, so, avoiding the sprawled in on the floor twins he rolled the gurney up to the freezer pulled one empty drawer out and pulled with great effort the corpulent man over the steel drawer rollers and slammed the container closed.
Drunk or no drunk, Paolo was a dutiful fellow; he wasn’t to let things in disarray even if the participating owners of the drink bout wasn’t there to help.
He kicked the gurney away and drove forward the ceremonial one where a expensive coffin was waiting for the new resident.
It was padded with rich silk with and a thick pillow; heavy, all things where turning heavy, he pushed the damn thing pointing at the chapel door, after all the funeral wasn’t do until three o’clock of the afternoon, plenty of time to pack good old Bruno “with a bone” inside, the thought made him start laughing to himself and feeling more heavy than ever.
No way he could drive home, for just a few hours of eye resting when he could do it here.
That white pillow was calling him like and enchanting and lovely siren.
His foot stumbled in the moonshine jug and he told to himself “what the hell” bend over and picked it up getting surprised of his ability to do so and not fell flat on his kisser, and proceeded to give that mug a mouth-to-mouth treatment emptying it from its last swigs of the potent Ezra’s elixir.
His eyes got blurred, the room started to spin and the mug felt from his hand with enough racket to wake up the twin zombies, they didn’t move.
Paolo, now really really heavy just kind of diagonally leaned on the open coffin and slowly but sure his head touched the calling pillow and he lied down with a sigh of satisfaction, thinking what a waste of good material to chuck inside the crematorium.
Because the light, like those used in operation rooms in the hospitals, was shearing bright he pulled the lid down and once the welcoming dark hit his face…sleep came.”

“The first of the twins to wake up saw horrified that it was now 1.45 PM and the funeral was to be a 3 PM.
Looking around he saw that everything was ridden and the coffin ready.
Paolo was a good man.
Now they must hurry with the preparations, flowers, candelabra, maybe they get lucky and don’t screwed up having so short time and get they knees baseball bat clobbered.
He shook his brother feeling his head going to pieces by the mother of the hangovers, but the thought of what those Mob goons could do sobered him a lot.
His brother, moaning with headache, opened his eyes looking at his brother questioningly.
“It is one forty five and the funeral is at three, wake up! wake up!” he said with panic in his voice.
That, the panic in the voice of his twin brother made him remember about the funeral and the kind of “beloved Family” left behind and he was on his feet like a Jack-from-the-box, instantly feeling that one of those goons had clobbered his head with an axe.
Paolo went home and all is right, we nee to hurry and have the chapel ready, c’amon, chop chop!”

“The twins were just putting the final touches in the chapel when the first “beloved” started to arrive, the hangover on the twins didn’t impede them to make believe being putting the final touches, rearranging here and there, and not finishing in panic what should had been finished the night before, or at least early that morning.
The “Family” will be seated on the right, by the point of view of the catholic priest doing the ceremony, and the illustrious invited on the left row of pews.
Before any of importance from the actual “Family” could lift a questioning eyebrow they rolled in the
ceremonial gurney with the shining coffin in front of the altar/crematorium’s door, and with a sigh of relief they posted themselves against the door of the workshop, and I say against the door because the alcohol residuals combined with fear made their legs like soft rubber.”

“The paunch of the catholic priest, Don Giacomo came long before the good padre’s red nose by Chianti.
The last mass most have been heavy on the holy wine because the padre seemed in very good humor, red cheeks and a satisfied row of pearl white smile.
Tipsy an English gentleman would say, drunk like a skunk others could point, but one that could hold his wine.
After a while the little chapel was almost full but not before the arrival of the local Godfather with a few females wearing black trailing behind.
Some of the men, as he advanced to the head pew, solicitous bend over to take his hand kiss his magic ring.
And soon, the ceremony could start.
“Don Giacomo the catholic priest started with a well done rehearsal harangue about life and death, Paradise with eternal summers with not bugging mosquitoes and plenty of lasagna and cannoli and how, HOW!!! the beloved departed was now to enjoy eternity with.
All could have been just fine if the good padre hadn’t, with that forceful HOW!!! slammed his hand on the coffin lid in a Chianti wine induced need to make it clear to everyone that good old Bruno was going first class to meet with Saint Peter and get a cannoli stopped in his mouth before he could uttered a word that could send him third class to where-you-know- very hot spa.”

“That fateful hand slamming was the clue for Paolo to
push the lid open nearly knocking the padre’s belly in the crematorium door direction, asking “what’s the time?” with a dip and hoarse cavernous voice after a hours of heavy hard snoring.
Thinking of Satan, perdition and punishment for have indulged with so much altar wine. The padre pushed the coffin away from him like rejecting the Devil.
The coffin rolled down the red-carpeted steps towards the two front rows with the consequence of creating a panic retreat like you see when a tsunami approach your beach BBQ party, as Paolo, now tossed every each way hearing the panic screams and not full awake yet from the alcohol stupor started screaming inside the coffin as well, the lid opening and spewing him on the steps as the coffin, now in avalanche mode, approached the horrified lucky ones that got to seat on the front row and that had no chance of retreat stopped as they were by a human wall going nowhere.
The chapel doors wasn’t build wide enough to accommodate two fat ladies with big hats side by side to make their exit, and couldn’t dislodge themselves because of the human tsunami pushing their corsets even tighter.
With the coffin perilously near one of the trapped guest legs, he hadn’t but one choice, grab his .45 mean Colt and whack the sonofabitch attacking coffin discharging a full clip before the padre could pray “Jesus!” but getting knocked down anyways by the now full ventilated wood contraption.
The shooting, graduated the stampede into pandemonium as the old and feeble front wall gave up at last and everybody went wham! sprawling onto the sidewalk, with one array of non propriety red laced underwear under black mourning clothes.
At last, the front row guest, were free, the coffin was dead and they could escape jumping from pew to pew making it a perfect Bouncing Funeral.”