One sad day, successful English businessman Frederick Feghoot, a distant ancestor of the famous Ferdinand Feghoot, passed away. (Or was he technically a descendant? It's so hard to tell with time travellers!) At the funeral, a mourner who didn't really know Mr. Feghoot all that well (some business associate, no doubt), was chatting with another.
"I understand he was survived by two children, a boy and a girl, yes?"
"Well, I wouldn't quite call them that any more. They were, last time I saw them, but now they're middle aged. In fact, Francine is happily married with three children of her own, and Phillip has been married and divorced."
"Oh. What do they do? Are they going to take over the business?"
"I doubt it. Francine wants to stay at home and take care of the kids, and her husband makes enough money that she can afford to. Phillip is quite happy at the British Museum, and doesn't care much for money. His father wanted him to go into the business, but there was bad blood between them over his wife. I suppose he might take over the business now, though."
"Oh my. What was the bad blood about?"
"He's a very jealous sort. She and his father became very good friends, and in fact still were until he died. He thought his father was trying to take her away from him. She tried to convince him otherwise, and as far as anyone knows, there was never anything improper between her and his father. But he grew crueler and crueler, and eventually, she left him."
"Ouch. Well, enough about that. What does he do at the British Museum? I imagine it's a fascinating place to work."
"So I've heard. He's a paleontologist."
"So he gets to go out in the field and dig up bones, and hobnob with cool people like Bob Bakker and Stephen Jay Gould?"
"He used to, but these days, he spends most of his time in the laboratory, analyzing coprolites."
"Copper whats?"
"Not copper, copro. Coprolites. They're, basically, well... fossilized pieces of dinosaur, ummm... droppings."
A woman seated in the next row turned around.
"And I must say," she says, in a slightly slurred voice, "it suits him well. I certainly couldn't do such a job. In fact, I don't know what I ever saw in that little turd. Hi, I'm that ex-wife you were talking about."
"Uh, hi."
"Hello."
"Before I left, he tried everything he could to make me miserable. He killed my pets and plants, would reformat my computer and throw away the backups, write nasty comments in my web site's guestbook, everything. Especially if his dad would give me any gifts, even just ordinary birthday or Christmas gifts."
"Well, at least you're out of that situation now," said the mourner who knew her ex-father-in-law.
"Not entirely. Ever since I was a little girl, I loved huckleberries. Ever since even before I could pronounce such a big word. I called them 'huckies' then. I would ask for huckleberry pie for dessert, I got towels decorated with them, etc. One year, for Christmas, his father gave me a comb and brush set, in sterling silver, decorated with huckleberries. The comb had five along each side, and the brush had five up the handle, and ten more on the back. I used it every day. They were my favorite comb and brush. I brushed my hair with that one every morning and every night before bed, and I carried that comb with me most places. But they were among the things I had to leave behind when I finally couldn't take any more of his abuse, and left."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand. You're don't live with him any more, you've gotten a divorce, you're away from him, in fact he's not even here today. How are you not out of that situation?"
"He uses them at work, in a very degrading manner. He sweeps up the samples with my brush, and uses my comb to... well... you know what he does at work, right?"
"Yes, but I don't see how a comb would be terribly useful there."
"You see, to prepare some of the samples, he has to mix them with a sort of pickling solution. And <sniff> he uses <sob> my comb to stir it!"
"Oh, how awful!" sympathized the first mourner.
"You don't mean..." started the second.
"Yes," replied the lady...
"The son brines shite on my old ten-hucky comb!"