When I die. Boobs and booze … seriously boobs and booze, or so I hope.

We all die.  We all also poop so the statement that we all die is about as shocking as that, when you boil it down.  Also the sun will rise tomorrow.

I want to give very specific instructions here about what should happen when I finally pass but realize, “well fuck I’ll be dead” so do whatever you want to with my dead ass.

I’ll give guidance and hope it’s followed.

Let’s just launch into that list and see who is in charge of what …

Adrian Schulte and Sarah Leslie get to pick the music.    I hope they fight over it, honestly I do, but they get to choose the tunes.    Back off peeps, I decreed from up above they get the final say.  If they pick anything by Celine Dion then that’s what it is.   They are further authorized to tattoo my dead body but only with Gary Larson “Far side” tattoos … they know what that means.

They also have to pick a wake venue that equals slip-and-slide level awesome but also incorporates hot tubs.  I suggest slip and slide into a hot tub but you’re both in charge.

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

yeah I have a woman I can turn too when I need a quick turnaround, original cleavage shot … don’t you?

Gina Gray I bequeath you ‘toplessness’.  Meaning you don’t have to be topless but I demand, DEMAND in the sense that I will haunt every woman that disobeys this order, all the women be topless during my wake.  Small tits, don’t care.  Big tits, don’t care.  Floppy tits, not an issue at all either.  I want all tits on full display at my wake.   Gina make this so.  GG … you have awesome tits, be the only chick at the wake with a top on.  You are authorized three other “exempt” rulings.    Use them wisely.

Rob Gowen also has to follow Gina around the entire time wearing flip flops, boxer shorts and a brown tee-shirt with a bottle of hair gel demanding of everyone, “where is my hair gel.” This will make me happy as I look on from the ever-after.

Mike Gianeeeteee …. You sir will ensure everyone is drunk as shit. 

If my grave isn’t muddy with beer (and piss) you fucked up. 

Don’t fuck up. 

Someone has to later donate me to a medical college.   I want college kids who will later view my autopsied corpse to go “HOLY fuck those lungs are torn up.  That is the most fucked up liver I ever saw and holy shit that’s a big dick!  Which is also why I expect Ray Coley to … never mind.

I want Nick Sternberg and Jerry O’hara to shoot 9 mm (13 rounds) in to the air, Saddam Hussein style … while drinking beers.

Ruth Sternberg has to ensure my foreskin is reattached.  If my foreskin cannot be located, she gets to direct a reenactment of that Monty Python skit where a ton of topless chicks chase a condemned man over a cliff.   I suggest you get Rick Bumgardner to help with the camera work.

I also give Rick my collection of plastic army men and dinosaurs.

I expect Maggie and Alex to supervise it all, I suggest an elaborate system utilizing clipboards, reading glasses, annoying whistles and safety vests. Don’t forget disapproving looks when some lady shows up and refuses to be topless.

Darcy Debase, bet you didn’t see this coming, you have to cater it.     I liked ribs.  So it should be ribs.  You should also be topless, figure it out.

Side note to Gina: There are no pasties allowed (Darcy will totally try to weasel out that way). 

Gina already knows this.  I’m just reinforcing the message.

Bron Berry has to show up and proclaim, “Holy boobs!”  You also have to announce a best tits winner.    From the crowd I mean.

Maggie and Alex will have to organize a best boobs contest, because that’s how I would have wanted it and because I just wrote that thing about Bron being a boobie judge and crap.

Dagmar, one year after my death, has to go online to buy something and surf for the highest price.  If she finds the same spatula for sale for $20 and $40 she has to buy the $40 one.   She also has to yell out during the wake, “That mother fucker fucked me again!”  I’ll be giggling from the afterlife I assure you.

Val Henderson and Lynn Davis will print out every post on this blog and hand correct, with red pen, the untold millions of grammatical, spelling and WTF errors.   They will then pass them out to the people in attendance.  They’ll be topless so you won’t mind.

Mike Lavigne has to take over this blog.   He also has to rename it, “Was that Todd dude a dick or what?”  I’d suggest asking Jesse for ideas Mike.

Matt and Marni Sandberg have to proclaim loudly during the funeral while whatever Christian priest you all pick is talking, “I thought he was Jewish?”

Mel Raymond and Mellissa Novakovich are in charge of snark, turn it up to 11 ladies.   They’ll understand why they were paired the minute they meet.  Also fuck you both.

Chad Oliver gets my remote control helicopter IF he promises to annoy Amanda once a week with it.

Eric and Bianca get my beer fridge, full circle kids.

Little Edward Oliver gets a car.  Nothing that exceeds like 30K IN TODAY’S prices so don’t be bankrupting my widow.   Also if he doesn’t have one, his own computer.

Leila and Jill get all revenues from my many super top-secret iPhone game ideas.   Hint they all suck and will garner like $2 at best.

Bucky, start raising funds now, this is gonna cost us.  By us I mean you.   I want a shit ton of hot tubs …

2 responses to “When I die. Boobs and booze … seriously boobs and booze, or so I hope.

  1. Shit I forgot one. Sue has to poke my dead body at least twice.

  2. The Overreacter to compliments of the Breasts, not boobs

    Why would he want anyone without shirts and brassiers on at his wake for, thats an odd request isn’t it?

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