Morning, hon’. Who died?

On the rare mornings when my wife and I find ourselves at the breakfast table simultaneously reading the paper over coffee, we usually stay silent until one of us utters the name of a dead stranger.

“Torque Wrench,” my wife said recently, her nose buried in the back of The Advocate A-section.

“Not bad,” I offer without looking up from whatever the B-section is called now, still groggily reeling from the icy invective of sweet-faced columnist Michelle Malkin.

“Sexy Grandma,” Martha announced one recent morning.

Threatening to break our unwritten code of no talking before coffee, I look up to question the authenticity. But her unspoken gaze answers: “You heard correctly.”

Sexy Grandma. What moxie.

Anyone overhearing these odd, non sequitur exchanges would be baffled unless they realized we’re sharing nicknames from the obituaries page. Hidden within the somber, gray columns containing the news of the dead are fantastic nuggets of humor. It seems fitting that a state with so many nicknames—the Creole State, the Pelican State, the Bayou State, the Sportsman’s Paradise—should be peopled with citizens who identify each other as animals, tools and body parts.

My wife couldn’t contain a giggle the other day. “Dixie Cup Lady!” she said with virtual elation. At moments like that, one can only push back from the table and revel in the awesomeness of it all.

Of all the functions our daily newspaper still provides, surely none is more vital than telling us who just died. That the obituaries include nicknames—regardless how unbecoming—may just be the most essential dose of humor all day, lightening stark mortality with our wry, nicknaming wit. And if the coffee isn’t working, the nicknames often jumpstart our day.

Big Slick. Little Mama. Big Mama. Cool Breeze.

Some days I turn to the obits and think, “There just can’t be any more good nicknames.”

Yet there they are, day after day, week after week—little oases of levity.

Big Eye. Dead Eye. Stanka. Auntee Bootie. Pineapple.

Disco. Act Right. Fat George. Big Joe The Grinder. Monkey.

And a personal favorite—one that shows up surprisingly often—Duck.

The nicknames are often poetic, and they syncopate otherwise straightforward names with an irresistible dash of rhythm. They’re simply a pleasure to say: Johnny “Lil Cup” Martin. Eddie “Round Boy” Clark. Albert “Sleepy Dog” Jones.

All of those nicknames have appeared in obituaries in The Advocate during the past decade or so. Their inventiveness and flair says more about our collective joie de vivre than all the flowery language and pumped-up praise the obituaries sometimes contain.

A surviving family that can confidently disclose to the world that their patriarch named Skillet has met his maker is, in some small way, a comfort.

It reminds us that, even in their darkest hour, even the grieving still possess a spark of life, a sense of humor and that all-too-rare human virtue, humility.

I’m confident that were he still around, Willie “Torque Wrench” Wilson—may he rest in peace—would agree.