I feel fine. In fact, I have not felt this good in years. Yet, because I have recently observed how quickly a hefty pile of snow can melt, I am compelled to express for the record my dead desires, just in case. I am calling it my will. Lawyers and judges may disagree, but screw those lying, sanctimonious bastards.

Okay, here goes:

I, Robert Iozzia, am of sound enough mind to have the wherewithal to compose this document and save it to a flash drive.

I wish to have my carcass cremated and its ashes interred in a Maxwell House coffee can (because I was “Good to the last drop!”®) and kept in prominent display at my fitness center. This should not be considered the childish prank of an asshole, but a warning from an asshole that exercising is not what it is hyped to be, and is in the top one-thousand causes of death—just before quinoa-gorging and after masturbating in a sauna.

The following songs shall be looped and played at my memorial service: “Already Gone” [Eagles], “Hell’s Bells” [AC/DC], “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper” [Blue Oyster Cult], “In My Time of Dying” [Led Zeppelin], and “(Too Fat Polka) I Don’t Want Her, You Can Have Her, She’s Too Fat For Me” [Frankie Yankovic]. I absolutely do not want any Grateful Dead tunes! For the record, I hate them more than I hate asparagus and the Tea Party (separately and together).

I bequeath all my worldly possessions to my wife, who shall keep or divide and distribute them as she sees fit, except my guitars shall be given to that person I wish to drive slowly mad (she will know who I mean), since none of them can ever stay in tune.

I bequeath all my unworldly debt to the Walt Disney Company. The “Evil Empire” has had no bearing on my life, except that I hate it like fabric odors hate febreze®—although I like ESPN (which it owns), even if its programming is more repetitive than a stutterer with Alzheimer’s, and way too many of its on-air “talent” are not able to use good or well properly even if their lives depended on it … and they would if I were king.

I am not now or will be when I am dead in any position to demand that my wife remain a widow for the remainder of her life. If she does remarry, however, it is my desire that she wed a wealthy, closeted homosexual male with no desire to touch her “in that way,” but needs her to be his “beard.” I suppose I cannot dictate his profession, but I hope he will not be a dentist, attorney, or in any manner associated with quinoa, asparagus or the Tea Party.

See you soon?

Reluctantly submitted,
Robert Iozzia


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