Dear Heirs and Heiresses,
Thank you for coming to the reading of my will. My lawyer, Bill Edmonds, will be conducting the reading, and is legally obliged to read every word. Since I never liked Bill: shitsucker! I, Bill Edmonds, suck my own nipples! Jshsdnfw8sdffs!
I am unaware as to how I have died. If all has gone according to plan, I died in church, along with hundreds of other parishioners and much of the surrounding neighborhood. I hope to enter heaven in the ensuing confusion. If this fails and I cling to life, I intend to blow myself up after collecting all my family, creditors, and friends into a single room. If this is the case: go ahead and push the button, Bill.
No doubt you are wondering who will receive my $50 million fortune. I won’t leave you in suspense. I am leaving my entire fortune to Bill Edmonds…is a faggy fag. Ha ha! Suck it again, Edmonds! No, in fact my fortune will be left to whoever can multiply 34 by 98 the fastest. Go!
The answer is indeed 3,332. No doubt it’s my nerdy brother who answered first. Richard, you do not receive my money. You receive my collection of rare poisons and expensive wines. Unfortunately, you do not receive the labels. Please leave in the next few minutes or you will also receive my scary ghost collection.
On the subject of my funeral. I like the idea of a viking funeral: a longboat set on fire and pushed down the river. I would also like to be simultaneously cryogenically frozen. Get a shitload of priests for the ceremony, too. Have them fight it out. The winner probably has the right god. I’ve always been partial to Methodists, so slip him a blackjack and a wink. There should also be a choir of golden-voiced eunuchs, freshly gelded only.
My funeral should not be a sad affair. Smiles, all the time! Cameras will be monitoring! And wear clown suits! Smiles even when you’re eating the stuffed canapes, which are stuffed with chili powder and my ashes. I would like the priest to read from the Book of Genesis, only with my name inserted for God. Please applaud at appropriate points. And everyone better give my rotting corpse a big fat kiss, if they want a shot at the Picassos I haven’t already used as toilet paper.
In reality, my vast fortune will go to whoever completes a long series of mental and physical tests, each designed to everyone raise their hand now! Last one up has to leave! Now switch seats, touch your toes, jumping jacks, touch your nose! Last five to finish, leave. However, you all have the option of receiving a pound of solid gold GAA solid gold cast in the shape of violent child pornography. Your call.
A few specific bequests: to my wife, Linda, all the money you want, provided that all the implants I paid for are buried with me. They’re mine. To each of my feuding sons, Harold and Gerald, I bequeath half of a check for fifteen million dollars. However, they are not halves to each other. To Bill, a video of me doing either a very well-made-up actress or his wife. Who is it, Bill, who is it?
The rest of my fabulous fortune I leave to my beloved friend. He or she will know who he or she is, and can claim the fortune as his or her own.
Thank you, and Bill bones dogs,
Michael Spaden III