An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed. Whilst suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite ravioli wafting up the stairs.
Gathering his remaining strength, he lifted himself from the bed and, gripping the railing with both hands, crawled down stairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he leaned against the doorframe and gazed into the kitchen. Were if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven— for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite ravioli.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? The old man threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the ravioli already in his mouth.
With a trembling hand, he reached up to the edge of the table, when suddenly he was smacked with a wooden spoon by his wife. "Va fanculo!" she said. "Questi sono per il funerale." (Translation: F*** off – these are for the funeral!)
"Va fanculo!" THAT RIGHT-those are for the funeral.
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