The Mortician

George, my father in law, rest his soul, belonged to a local business organization in Hudson County, NJ.  Once or twice a year they would plan a social event to have some fun.  Usually, one of these junkets was a trip to Monmouth Race Track's clubhouse for an afternoon of eating drinking and racing, in no particular order.  The group was usually quite large, about fifty or so from all different types of businesses:  retailers, restaurateurs, politicians, etc.  They one thing they had in common was they all liked to have a good time.  It didn't matter for the most part how much anyone of them won or lost; no one had a gambling problem.

On this day, until the fifth race, the good time was getting louder as a function of the cocktail service.

One of the group owned a funeral home, and had been having a very unlucky day so far.  He hadn't won a race, and the horse he bet on in the fifth was trailing the field badly, when the mortician stood up, raised his hand at the horse, and said,

"Drop dead."

Within a few seconds, the horse keeled over, and a few seconds after that, everyone of the other businessmen got up and distanced themselves from the undertaker, who sat by himself for the rest of the races. However, they promised to sit with him the next year if he promised not the curse at the horses.

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