Medical scientists are telling me that it is possible I may croak in the next 100 years. I think they are full of it.
Should I be wrong, here's the program.
Pluck my heart out and bury it next to Pete.
Have my body cremated and the ashes scattered between the hedges.
The FUNeral shall be at Poodie's Hilltop Bar outside Austin.
Dr. Les Smith shall preside and say, "He was all that and a bag of chips."
Have Joe Diffie sing "Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die".
I am working on epitaphs for a Formica headstone, and here are the current contenders:
he never wore crocs
voted for W and i'm still ashamed
i still have yellow fever
it's colder than nancy pelosi's heart down here
only his hairdresser knows for sure
he never made that sideways smiley face thing
i can see up your pant leg and you lied to me
call me at 214-213-6478
i'm hungry and i'm bored
you're still two down
i can't find my keys
there ain't 72 black-eyed virgins up here
hunker down dawgs
got you last
I promise to get this finalized in due time.