Where There's a Will...

"The only thing you ever have to do is die. Everything else is optional, as long as you can deal with the consequences."

-- Me


Every summer I get laid off from my job for about nine weeks, and it always makes me think about death.

I blame my wife, primarily. Whenever I'm home when she wakes up, she has to detail the nightmare she just had, which usually has something to do with losing the child, forgetting the child somewhere, or having the child taken away.

This is one of the hundreds of things that make her a better parent than I am. I still dream about trying to get through my day without any pants on. I don't know why my subconscious self doesn't just go home and put on some pants, but apparently it's not an option.

If dreams mean anything, I'm more concerned about people observing my inadequate physique from the waist down than I am about my own daughter's safety.

Anywho, I've decided to make out a will.

(Why do you "make out" a will, not just "make" a will? I've never understood this. It's creepy.)

Having a will gives you enormous posthumous power. Have you ever noticed that people will go to great lenghts to honor the wishes of the deceased?

If you want to be buried vertically in a giant Hefty bag full of Oreo cookie filling, somehow it will be accommodated, or your loved ones will forever carry the guilt of having not honored your dying wishes. Then you can haunt the living crap out of them.

I can't miss out on such an opportunity. I'm off to legalzoom.com, because, if anything's worth doing, it's worth doing in 15 minutes or less.

First, I must make sure that, in the event of my unexpected demise, I'll be wearing pants at the funeral.

Second, I want the theme song from "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood" to play continuously at my gravesite for a year.

Plus, I need to make sure something evil happens to the chickens.

You know, I never thought I'd hear myself type this, but chickens are becoming fashionable.

More and more people are keeping domestic fowl, according to an article I read someplace.

The trend has even invaded my own home, despite my best efforts.

My wife and four-year-old daughter wanted to buy some of the fuzzy chicks at the local hardware store. I pointed out that chickens require food, housing, heat, and a place to run around that isn't the street. They poop everywhere. We won't even get any eggs for months, I said, and we don't even eat many eggs to begin with.

But they were cute and furry, and so I should not have been surprised when my two favorite females came home with six of them, and immediately enlisted my help concocting a place for them to live.

That was ten weeks ago. Now, the birds are no longer cute. You can't mince around our front yard without stepping in bird droppings.

I renovated a toddler play house to serve as temporary quarters for the birds, but I don't know what we'll do with them when snow flies. I don't have time to build a chicken coop, and I don't have hundreds of dollars to spend on one, either.

So, in the will, the chickens get nothing. You hear me? NOTHING!

Unless they're willing to help out with the Oreos.