Star And Tribune Obituaries

Let’s be honest: nobody wants to read obituaries. They’re the newspaper’s version of a sad trombone sound—except, wait, have you actually read the Star and Tribune obituaries lately? They’re less “funeral dirge” and more “living-room comedy roast with a PowerPoint.”

Death Gets a Plot Twist

Here’s the surprising truth: these obituaries are where real life kicks journalism in the shins. The Star Tribune lets families write their own goodbyes, which means you get gems like: “Her baking caused three fire alarms, but her cookies were worth the evacuation.” I’m not kidding—actual people admit their grandma’s cooking started small fires.

One obituary I found bragged that the deceased was “the undisputed champion of the pancake-flipping competition at the 1982 county fair.” Another noted their beloved uncle “once argued with a parking meter for twenty minutes and lost.” This isn’t sadness; it’s a stand-up special with a death certificate.

The Obituary vs. The DNR Order

But hold up—these texts also act as weird, wonderful history textbooks. Did you know that the Star Tribune obituaries have documented the rise of Minnesota’s hot dish from a casserole to a cultural weapon? I saw one that claimed the deceased “never missed a chance to bring a tater tot hot dish to a potluck, even after she was banned from using the church microwave.” Banned! From church! Because of a casserole!

And there’s the hard stuff, too. The obituaries for veterans often drop in casual bragging disguised as fact: “He survived three tours and a really bad meatloaf at the VFW. The meatloaf was worse.” That meatloaf line was real. I checked.

James G. Wallis Obituary | 2025 - 2005 | Minnesota Star Tribune

The Unintentional Comedy Goldmine

Here’s the kicker: these obituaries are not written by professional writers. They’re penned by grieving spouses or annoyed adult children who slip in real talk like, “She is survived by her cat, Mittens, who will now inherit the remote control.” Or my personal favorite: “He was predeceased by his toupee, which went missing in 1998.”

The Star Tribune even has a hidden code. If you see “loved a good party,” it means “drank too much at every wedding.” If it says “had a lively sense of humor,” it means “your jokes were terrible but we laughed anyway.” Seriously, it’s like a subtweeting masterclass aimed at the dead.

Casper Star Tribune Obituary Submission

The Final Punchline

So next time you’re sipping coffee and need a pick-me-up, skip the comics. Flip to the obituaries. You’ll find stories about a woman who “never forgave the neighbor for the 1987 hedge dispute” and a man “whose last words were probably about his fishing pole.” They’re short, honest, and funnier than most sitcoms—because death, it turns out, has a fantastic sense of humor.

And if you’re thinking, “That’s morbid,” remember: these people ended their earthly journey by letting the world know they once arm-wrestled a moose (yes, that’s a real one). The moose won, but the obituary? Legendary.