Consider these my final wishes. My lawyer will not know what to do with them as he is a tech-illiterate nonagenarian with great amounts of ear hair and a cough that can best be described as bubonic. It will be up to you to ensure he sees these words. Fair warning, he believes a computer is literal magic and will wheeze “BAH!” whenever you try to bring it up.
Inform my closest family and friends of my passing. Do not dare tell my greatest enemies. They know what they did…
If my body is found headless, alert the Highlanders. If you can only find one of them in all your searching, then run like your life depends on it, because it will. This fearsome being will have become too powerful.
If I’ve been turned into a zombie, I’ll probably be ravenously hungry. Please offer your brain for my sustenance. We’re friends, right? A good friend would sacrifice themself for the benefit of their undead pal.
Otherwise, cremate most of me in the fire of a thousand suns. Take my ashes and mix them with gunpowder, deposit the explosive blend into an urn made of knotty oak, and shoot me straight up into the heavens out of a cannon. May the resulting fireworks delight the still-living down on earth and flutter my incinerated remains like snow on the heads of everyone in a 10-mile radius.
Bury the rest of me underneath the shade of a verdant ash tree on a hilltop that looks like the quintessential Windows XP desktop wallpaper. If he is dead, bury the corpse of Bob Barker next to my plot. If he is still alive, deaden him up some and refer to the previous sentence.
I wish to have a cadre of high-quality cats, dogs, and people of all types pay their respects to me before my momentous send-off. Should any of them feel the strong desire to give my waxen face a lick, then damn it, let them lick.
Include many impressive guns and swords in my ceremonial tribute so I might arm myself in the potential afterlife. You never know when one of the departed might have to take out a vengeful god.
I demand whatever living members of ZZ Top there are to play the songs of Led Zeppelin at my funeral. Zeppelin had better songs, but ZZ Top had significantly better beards. Alternatively, make the members of Zeppelin grow big, bushy beards. Those two things together would make for the single best performance in the history of music. You’re welcome.
All of my money is tied up in pickle currency. That is, I have amassed a staggering amount of antique and artisanal pickle jars, the majority of which once held dill gherkins. Much like Beanie Babies and any cryptocurrency, they will only be worth something for, conservatively, two and a half days. After that exhilarating time passes, they will become a burden.
Don’t clear my browser history.
I have a number of plain, monochromatic t-shirts. Please see that those go to any dull minimalist you know, along with the message, “With regards from one of your own.”
Whoever finds the hidden key in one of my desk drawers must find the lock it belongs to; this will be your new goal in life. Nothing else will be as important. Complete your momentous task, or I will never stop haunting your ass. I have no idea what that lock is locking.
I will have taken on a massive amount of debt before my demise. You’ll have to navigate hours worth of phone tree hold cycles with credit card companies to sort all that out. Hopefully, it’ll all get canceled, but I make no promises. As a reward for the hard work, enjoy your new jet skis and high-end stereo equipment!
Mount Seanmore. Get to chiseling.
I have always wanted to learn how to play the banjo but never put in the time. Mostly because I’ve never mustered up the courage to be seen with a banjo. Honor my memory by gifting my alma mater’s music department with 3-5 professional banjos. Encourage the creation of a bluegrass club.
My movie watch list has ballooned to over 900 items. It will surely continue to grow. Find one person to watch all of those films. Alternatively, find at least 900 people to watch one apiece.
Enact a successful campaign to have my death date recognized as a cherished holiday, local only is fine. Ensure that there are annual remembrances with balloons, cake, and lamentations of women.
Should the fabled Walt Disney cryogenic treatment exist, turn me into a meat popsicle. Do not hesitate to do this; who knows how long my brain will last after my heart stops. When the cure for death is discovered, as it must, revive me immediately. My reborn, immortal self will send your descendants a personalized thank you card from Trader Joe’s and a mid-tier Edible Arrangements fruit bouquet. The card will feature an illustration of French dogs riding penny-farthings and holding baguettes. The bouquet will be mostly cantaloupe.
That should cover everything, save for one last note: To my wife, I love you… and your butt.