Stand with your legs apart. Bend forward all the way. Look back between your legs. Thank you.
Now look around you and take stock of what you see. The world has been stood on its head. The gentlemen's feet beat about in the air while the ladies, she how they grab for their skirts? The cars, too: their four tires are spinning in the air, looking for all the world like a dog trying to scratch its stomach. Then there's the chrysanthemum, its thin jack-in-the-box stem reaching for the sky as it balances precariously on its head -- and the express train speeding along on top of its trail of smoke.
To the left, the parish church stands balanced on the tips of the lightning rods sticking out of its twin steeples. And over there is a sign on the window of a pub:

Inside, a customer, his head to the floor, staggers laboriously from the counter, holding a mug of beer in his hand. Do notice the order, though: the foam is at the bottom, the beer is on the top, and the bottom of the mug is on top of the beer. Yet not a drop is spilled.
Is it winter? You bet your life! Just look at the snowflakes, how they are fluttering up, and the skaters as they zigzag in pairs, dangling from the icy mirror of the sky. Not an easy sport, skating!
However, let us look for a merrier spectacle. Ah, there! A funeral! Amidst the snowflakes falling up, through the veil of tears trickling the other way around, we can see the gravediggers haul the coffin up with two hefty ropes. The colleagues, friends and relations of the deceased, both near and far, his widow and three orphans all grab some clods of earth and begin pelting the coffin. Let us recall the heartrending sound as the clods of earth are flung into a grave, knock against the coffin and break into tiny little pieces. The grieving widow sobs. The poor fatherless orphans wail.
How different it feels to throw things up! How much more dexterity it takes to hit the coffin! To start with, you need high quality clods, otherwise they disintegrate halfway up. So there is much grabbing, shoving and running helter-skelter to retrieve the most compact pieces. But a good clod of earth is not enough. Badly aimed, it falls back down and if it should hit somebody, especially a rich, distinguished relative, there is no escaping the titter of delight that follows. However, if all goes well and the clod of earth is firm and compact, the aim is accurate and on the mark, the man who flung it is applauded, and everyone goes home feeling happy. For days to come people talk about the perfect aim, the charming deceased, and the amusing ceremony, how splendid it turned out, and they do so with no trace of hypocrisy, feigned lamentation or pretense at sympathy.
And now, you may straighten up. As you see, the world is on its feet again, and you are at liberty to mourn your dearly departed with all the tears and dignity you can muster.