My Living Will

People never think about these things before it's too late, so I thought I would write up my living will now. Don't worry, I'm not depressed, just hilarious.

What up, folks?!

If you're reading this, I'm dead, or pretty close to it. Bummer. I hope I died in some really kick ass way like being eaten by a grizzly bear instead of an aneurysm I suffered while on the toilet. However, if I'm not dead yet, don't let me go all Terry Schiavo on you. Seriously, just pull my damn feeding tube so I can go tits-up and party with Reggie White and Tupac already.

Am I dead yet? OK, good, now let's start dividing up my shit.

--The money in my savings account goes to Mandy so she can look hot at my funeral, or at least finally afford to get a nice pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. Well, on my bank account, probably just one shoe. But, still, I love you honey.

--My car, Yucca, I will to my parents, because how else do you say thanks for decades of love and devotion aside from leather seats? My sister Katie can have the spare tire.

That's about all of it. If you're here for a piece of the McCloskey fortune, I'm very sorry to disappoint you. I guess I died before my thumb wrestling career could really take off. Oh well.

As for my body, here's the deal: take whatever parts of me that can help someone else (Steve Martin can have my judgment about films, Beth on "The Gauntlet 2" can have my heart and my legendary wit is a gift to the blogging community), and then just throw what's left in the ground, no casket needed. I'm claustrophobic.

I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to say something inspirational about how you should live life to the fullest or something, but frankly who has time with all this work to do? ;-) But seriously, tell someone you love them, have more sex, laugh every day and root for the Braves. I'm out.

Love,

T--