"We are gathered here today to remember a good friend, a pillar of the commu..." The speaker bent nearly 45 degrees forward with a jerk and his hand shot into pants pocket and grabbed flesh like the shark from jaws just clamped down on his most sensitive parts.
"Sorry. Just a pinch. I'll continue." He straightened his clothing. "...nity, and a pioneer of queries. His prowess at..." His eyebrows popped upwards and his face registered more surprise than if the Second Coming occurred at the rear of the church. "Yowser!" he yelped and turned his back to the mourners. His body hid the frantic movements of his hands slipping under his belt and struggling to purge the offending sprite.
"Damn! Feels like I've been stabbed. I swear tiny things with pitchforks ran out of that pile of slush and up my pants. Can't find anything in here. Are you sure you exorcised all those printer's devils before we took the body," he said before he realized that the audience could hear him. He blushed and let the priest turn off the microphone.
"I might have missed one of the little beasties in those mountains of slush. Remember, all authors are haunted by a vast assemblage of doubt demons, what-if demons, if-only demons, printer's devils, carping demons..."
"All right, all right. What do I have to do to get through the eulogy without looking like a deranged imbecile?"
"Say an Our Father and a Hail Mary and pour this bottle of ice cold Holy Water down your pants."
"Lucky I'm wearing navy blue." He did as instructed and turned back to the audience.
"As Isaac Bashevis Singer once said, 'the wastebasket is a writer's best friend.' EE lived well with both the shredder and the wastebasket."