It occurs to me that I ought to have some kind of living will. I’d appreciate some free legal advice (from those of you whose legal degrees were not awarded as the result of a three-week Internet course) on the following:
I, Tony Woodlief, being of relatively sound mind (I mean, sometimes I get those middle-of-the-night-oh-God-I-can’t-breathe panic attacks, and often when I’m in front of a group I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that I am a fraud on the verge of being discovered, and then there’s the lingering anger problems and feelings of guilt and worthlessness, but I think that’s all relatively normal, don’t you agree, with emphasis on the word relatively, because really, have you met some of the freakjobs who work in this town?), and considerably less sound body, do hereby grant to my beloved, beleaguered, underappreciated wife complete authority to end my sorry existence in the event that I:
A) Need machinery to sustain my life (note: “machinery” does not include my Blackberry, MP3 player, or coffee maker, but can be construed to apply to my car, in the event that my career takes a sudden dip necessitating the delivery of pizzas or other foodstuffs to complete strangers);
B) Start paying excessive attention to gas prices, golf, or “American Idol;”
C) Testify to Michael Jackson’s soundness of mind and impeachability of character;
D) Volunteer for any cause that requires me to solicit signatures at the entrance to Metro stations;
E) Ever earnestly use the words “impact,” “dialogue,” or “interface” as verbs;
F) Get a toupee;
or
G) Let the pile of mulch in our driveway sit for another eleven months.
In the event that my termination becomes necessary/desirable/so intoxicatingly attractive that she can think about little else, my wife is authorized to employ any means of disposal that does not cause me pain for a period of longer than 0.00000000000000000001 seconds.
IMPORTANT CAVEAT: Regardless of what some cold-hearted twit of a medical professional might suggest, the foregoing excludes the option of freaking dehydrating me to death, and may anyone who would sentence his spouse — or a bloody stranger for that matter — to such a fate be resigned with his attorneys to eat sand for eternity in a hell without water fountains.
Stated, testified, blessed, affirmed, and affadavited six ways from Sunday,
Anthony John Woodlief
