Before we launch into the fun part of today's program, let's tip our hats to Project Compassion, the Chapel Hill-based organization that helps people cope with end-of-life illnesses. Its volunteers do a lot of heavy emotional lifting on behalf of those facing the Big Dark. Send along a Benjamin the next time you're feeling charitable.

(Pause here for somber reflection.)

OK, enough of the weighty stuff. Let's talk about something more giggle-licious. But be forewarned: There's irreverence ahead.

Last week, Project Compassion sponsored an evening seminar on "The Art of the Condolence Note." I was invited to participate because I've been on the receiving end of many such notes over the last seven years. (Yes, the evidence suggests that being around me can be hazardous to your health.) There were three other panel members, who also had been recipients of condolence notes. Between the four of us, we gave bushels of advice on how to best send along your sympathetic regards. Problem was, that advice was sometimes contradictory.

For instance, Chapel Hill writer Carol Henderson has a teeth-grinding abhorrence of phrases like, "He's in a better place." I can see it. I get annoyed when people seek to explain a tragic death by saying, "God needed another angel." My typical reaction: Yeah, except maybe so-and-so didn't want the job. Ever think of that?

Still, I tend to be tolerant of almost any expression of condolence. People usually don't know what to say, so I give them credit just for trying even if the results are awkward and ham-handed. I advised the group that any note is better than none -- just moments after Henderson had said, more or less, that no note is better than a bad one.

But her point is well-taken. Try to imagine how your words will sound to the recipient of your condolences. Henderson lost an infant child, and she took no comfort in the idea of "a better place."

Call that Tip No. 1. Other bits of advice to come out of the session included avoiding gentle euphemisms (it's a death, not a "sorrowful event"), unhappy tales from your own life as a gesture of empathy (hey, this isn't about you), and vague offers of assistance ("You know we're here for you" is only a couple of steps away from "We'll help if you beg us").

At the end of the session, the 50 people in attendance were instructed to write a condolence note for practice. With all the dos and don'ts still fresh in my mind, I decided to write the worst one I could imagine. I know this is evidence of a demented mind. But it sure was fun. Here it is:

Sorry about, you know, that thing. If you want to talk about it, call my girl and she'll set up a time. But it can't be Sunday, because we have a big football party planned. I'd invite you, but you're probably all sad and weepy, so it would be a huge downer for everybody else to have you there. I'm sure you understand. But we'll be thinking of you.

And I also want to say that I know how you feel at this time of tragedy. I had a big contract fall through at work this week, so my year-end bonus is probably in the toilet. Bad times all around, huh?

If you think you can top that, or have a real-life example of a surpassingly awful condolence note, send it along. It's a crime to keep a bad thing to yourself.

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