About once a month I am woken up by someone informing me I’m going to die.  Well, that’s not entirely accurate, threats against my life occur more than once a month but the majority are from someone who sounds suspiciously like my mother and are so frequent over the last twenty years that they have become part of life’s background noise.  Of late there has been a new voice raised in the chorus of mortality that tears me from dreams of fighting polar bears on the deck of the HMS Victory while grape-shotting Frenchmen.  This voice has the distressingly urgent belief that I’m going to die and the amusingly delusional belief that I have any possessions valuable enough to be fought over by my relieved relatives.
           
Through an extremely misguided series of moral choices I have generally adopted a polite phone manner throughout my life when dealing with strangers.  This even applies when I stagger from bed, a terrible ringing noise, my genitals catching on the many sharp edges of the folded rowing machine I use to dry my clothes, things sinking deep into the soles of my feet, the mice scattering mid-cannibalistic frenzy, and generally trying to find where the hell I left the cordless phone.  In spite of my superior willpower, when I pick up the phone and someone who failed their exams tells me I’m going to die… that’s when I find bad and improvised words pouring from my mouth like babies from a council estate womb. 

Last week I found myself laying on the floor and explaining that I was just going to go back to sleep and informing him he could continue his little vulture thing without me.  For about two minutes after I let the phone drop to the floor I heard a tinny voice explaining that numerous unpleasant accidents could happen to my weak and fragile form.  The noise only ceased when I rolled over and quietly breathily whispered the soothing mantra of “fuckshitcuntmotherfucker” five times.  Five is always the magic number… five times always brings a wonderful click as the other person hangs up…  This also works in person.
           
            The net result of this ongoing battle of wits is twofold. 

Firstly, I have developed a Pavlovian response to the phone ringing that leads to my entire life flashing before my eyes.  This is always a disheartening experience, especially as the flashback’s lack of a pause button means that the brief glimpses of breasts cannot be suitably appreciated.  Additionally, the lack of a fast-forward button means the gap between those glimpses is something of an endurance test. 
Secondly, I have decided to fuck over the evil forces of lawyerdom by providing a convenient and easy to fill-in last will and testament for anyone who wishes to finally stand up for themselves… and me… especially stand up for me…  I’m more important than you… think about that when it comes time to fill in the bit about giving stuff to people.

Before you ask, all formatting is… uh… legal… or at least barely-legal… which is close enough...

The Last Will and Testament of: <Insert name here. You can probably put something pithy in like Rock Ulikea Hurricane or, if you're limited to eight letters like in Pokémon, FUCKFACE>

I, being of sound mind, body, bowel, of music, and of gender-appropriate functioning genitals, hereby declare that I am speaking to you from beyond the grave... woooooooooo...

*Note to executor: Hire some guy, preferably a midget, to leap out from behind a curtain wearing a sheet. If I'm rich... well... was rich... rig up everyone's seats to an electric shock buzzer thing and give them a jolt. If I can afford convincing holograms, make me run through the crowd with my head under my shoulder.

Being either dead, missing in action, or on a one way trip of exploration to Mars, it's time to stake out all the official crap now that I'm not going to be around to secretly find your sister more attractive than you. I banged her.

*Note to executor: Point sharply at the far-right of the room and slowly bring your finger round until you're pointing at the far-left.

What to do with the any bits they found charred in the brothel after the explosion / that were handed back by The Cong / that re-entered orbit like firey fleshteroids:

Only bother to read If, by any freak chance, enough of me survived to be worth burying or if you've decided to use a substitute such as a bag of charcoal briquettes or a stray cat.

I hereby specify that my remains will be loaded into an ancient medieval siege weapon, be it trebuchet, catapult or my thigh bones into a giant crossbow. They must then be fired into a crowd of marketing people who all have free tickets to a concert. If there is no liquid matter left that once was part of me, please add a bag of offal found in the bins behind a butcher's shop.

Alternatively, if I was in marketing before my death, I wish for my body to be doused with holy urine in a cleansing ceremony before being thrown into an unmarked pit that will be filled in by squatting elderly prostitutes.

In case local laws prohibit any of the above I hereby opt for option three. Option three requires my corpse to be paraded through the streets on horseback clutching a golden sceptre in my cold, dead, hand. I will wear a garland of primroses around my head and any missing body parts will be replaced with golden prosthetics with diamond talons. A hundred elderly Italian women will precede me, their tears lubricating the wheels of my chariot. Behind me will be a procession of my slaves, all oiled and chained, being whipped by an amazonian woman of at least six feet and three inches in height. As they are whipped they will sing Handel's Messiah.

When the chariot reaches the sea the slaves will be executed one by one by a virgin with a scimitar. Their souls will serve me in Valhalla. My chariot will then be attached to the rocket motors and loaded onto the launch ramp. My various wives/husbands/transsexuals/hermaphrodites/all of the aforementioned will then perch uncomfortably on my lap. After being doused in sambucca the chariot will be set alight and fired away from the sea and towards the nearest orphanage.

I am well aware that you can't refuse to do this Fuckers. If you try to chicken out of this my curse will fall upon you and your body will be ripped apart by seagulls and angry, drunken sailors. They will then have sex with each individual part and never call again.

Who gets what shit?

Okay, you shit-eyed vultures... here's the bit you've been looking forward to... one thing first though...

Note to executor: Put your feet up and read Finnegans Wake out loud. Don't worry if you struggle, take it slow and keep trying and you'll get there.

I hereby announce that all my worldly possessions will be given to The Nazis...

Just kidding... No, I gave them enough when I was alive.

All my shit will be fairly divided using a similar logic to Solomon... or at least if Solomon had balls and actually had just chopped the baby in half and thrown the bloody shards to the people who interrupted his frantic working through the harem's hymens.

A legal-standard treasure map will be divided into five separate pieces and hidden around the globe. Those who seek my wealth will have to decode a variety of riddles and battle a mysterious secret organisation in order to unite the five pieces and locate the tomb of <INSERT NAME HERE>.

A series of dangerous traps and annoying logic puzzles will be followed one of those things where you have to get the hoop on a stick all the way along the bendy wire without touching the two. The hoop and wire will be connected to a power source delivering a harmless voltage but at least 1000 amps of direct current.. The survivors will be gathered into cages by evil guards wearing evil turbans.

A pit, ten feet long by ten wide and ten deep will have been dug. All I own will be piled inside. It will then be a free-for-all in which whoever makes it from the pit with an item will assume its ownership. Before you are all break out from the holding pen to fight to the bloody death over my collection of novelty lighters, the cigarette-shitting donkey and my cursed treasure of incredible destructive power, the pit will be filled to hip-height with petrol and set alight. In a sentimental sop to you, my beloved friends of all these years, there will be fire extinguishers provided with only a handful of African black mambas released when you break the glass.

To whomever gets my cursed treasure of incredible destructive power, I must warn you that, due to its extreme age, it is not fused. Please bear in mind that, in addition to the curse and the incredible destructive power, it will probably not be in compliance with your electrical code so please use at your own risk and for christ's sake, use a surge-proof adaptor... I can't stress this enough people... surge-proof.

Parting Remarks :

I thought I'd end with a few words of wisdom I picked up in my long/short/middling life packed with sex/boredom/piracy/ninja-ness/treason.

1. The oven is always off, even when your photographic memory tells you that you left it on. The coffee machine is always on though and this will just somehow explode and turn the oven on. Even if you rush home and turn everything off... the coffee machine will be turned on again by the time you turn around. All you're going to achieve by going back there is getting caught in the blast.

2. The religious group who actually control the world are: The Wiccans. Yep, who'd have thought they could get all that power from twigs, too much makeup, ridiculous piercings and a lot of whining? They now control all the world's media and Starbucks. It is too late to defeat them now that I am gone, I was your final hope.

3. Your porn name is: Nipsy Spot.

4. In retrospect, I wish I had not slept with your sister. She was both awful in bed and reminded me of you, which was quite the turn-off.

5. The meaning of life is: "Oh fuck it".

6. The cordless mouse will never charge more than one fiftieth of the way, no matter how long you leave it on the little cradle.

7. Processed chicken slices should not be eaten if there are vibrant turquoise spots on it.

8. Hoover bags cannot be filled. They are infinite. If you open it and push down on the fluff every so often you will never need to buy another one. My hoover bag weighed more than fifty pounds at the time of my death and was so dense that there first formed a layer of diamonds and then a black hole.

9. If you don't wash under it, it will fall off.

10. I will return from beyond the grave and wreak a terrible vengeance.

11. Tell your sister I said hi.

Signed: <INSERT NAME HERE>.

Witnessed: <INSERT WITNESS NAME HERE AND THEN KILL THEM SO THEY WON'T RUIN THE SURPRISE>