Now That I’m Dead, I Totally Understand Your 1-Star Reviews of My Poorly-Managed Graveyard

I‘ve read your reviews and first, let me say that I’m sorry. I know that this graveyard is trash and I know that I, the former groundskeeper, was a big part of why it was “the butthole of burial sites,” as user Theresa W. put it.

Next let me say that I’m dead (claw machine accident, I’m sure it was in the papers) and now that I’ve spent enough time floating around this place like a clinically depressed grocery bag doing my prerequisite ghostly woe-is-me-ing, I’ve swallowed my pride and I’m ready to respond.

“I get that you need to change out the flowers when they wilt, but it seems like they change them out daily?”
—David S.

David, I was pretty judgmental of the floral arrangements, which I found tacky (Majored in Art in college), and so often I’d just chuck them out, thinking that your dead loved ones would appreciate my help in keeping their graveside aesthetic clean and simplistic.

Note: They did not. Millard, dead at age 96 and stuck that way, is still upset and won’t stop talking about the price of flowers and the reimbursement that I owe his daughter, Haddy.

Also, hate to admit this, but, despite my distaste for floral decor, I would often (maybe a little buzzed, maybe a little over-vaped) take the flowers and pile them onto a single grave to make one SUPER ARRANGEMENT so I could pretend that I was tending the grave of an historical figure or beloved tv celebrity.

“I found 7 (7??) Empty bags of Fritos scattered around my Gma’s grave?! WTH??”
—Liza K.

The culprit is a kid named Jeremy who lives nearby. He comes over from the nature trail that runs through the woods behind the graveyard, sacks of chips in his arms, enshrouded in the glory of poor parental control, and walks around munching junk food and kicking things.

He’s so annoying. I have on numerous occasions tried to phase my hand through his brain to see if maybe it will give him a migraine or allow me to reconfigure his mental wiring and somehow make it so he’s not such a Cheeto-‘stached little creeper.

So far nothing. I hadn’t really intended to haunt people, but Jeremy—who when I was alive once flipped me off and called me a “corn dog dick”—has made me reconsider.

“This place stinks, right? Like it literally smells.”
—Kim H.

Yep. It can be said now that a local manufacturer, embarrassed by a line of recently recalled products that were under investigation by the FDA, paid off the owners of the cemetery to have a truck full of tainted, experimental lunch meat secretly buried in unused graves.

I did the work myself, I am ashamed to admit. I dug four graves and buried about 300 lbs of bologna and jerky that were probably made of gila monsters and dead circus animals.

“Holes all over the ground, dangerous to step in.”
—Hank W.

I think the holes are mostly caused by a tag team of raccoons and rats that are HONEST TO GOD the size of the most famous overweight cats on Instagram.
I once watched as a toddler-sized rat sneakily dug a hole in sacred ground while a raccoon stood and kept watch.

It’s possible the buried meats are at fault. I think the RatCoon alliance is burrowing down into the graves and getting ahold of that genetically altered (maybe a little irradiated) processed junk food, and it’s causing them to mutate and maybe giving them mind powers and inter-species telepathy.

Not sure if spraying or laying traps will do anything. Maybe just tape off that part of the graveyard and let the experiment run its course.

“Headstones falling apart, grass not cut. Place looks straight up haunted.”
—Jill L.

Place is straight-up haunted. Most of the spirits have “moved on”—to where, I don’t know—but there are still plenty of ghosts hanging around. (Hi there.)
Mostly everyone keeps to themselves, but some ghosts are more talkative than others.

Frank is the most chattery of all. He was a retiree who in his twilight years became a birthday clown and instructed his family to bury him in full clown regalia.

Frank is a walking nightmare and I pity any Sixth Sense-type psychic boy who happens to wander past the cemetery.

“The groundskeeper should f’ing die.”
—Hillary K.

Congratulations, Hillary. Don’t ever say wishes can’t come true.

But seriously, I hope I’ve done some mending here and that maybe I can take some time to figure out the basics of possession so that I can get these responses typed up and posted online.

Until then, thanks for your time.