"By now I've surely died of something. With luck, I'll have had no idea what that something was. I hope that it was at least hilarious.
Not that I'm exactly thrilled with any affairs that don't involve me, which after the execution of this document will be pretty much all of them. Really, your tiny minds can't even begin to comprehend the depths of my rage concerning this fact. Unless they can manage about six feet, in which case you have it well covered.
That doesn't really work if I've been cremated. That's a little cheap of you all, but I could prepare a lovely funeral playlist. Chances are that I never actually got around to that, however, so try to make a good one yourselves. If you could get "Light my Fire," "Ring of Fire," and "Let Me Stand Next to Your Fire" in there I'd be much obliged. Try to leave "Another One Bites the Dust" out of it, as well as "Who Wants to Live Forever" and anything else by Queen. However, if I haven't been torched yet please make the lone exception of "Don't Stop Me Now." That track will be mandatory. In fact, if you could rig my corpse with a Jim Hensonish system of wires to enable my discarded husk to leap out of an open coffin and dance around in a hideous parody of life at the 30 second mark, that'd be pretty much perfect. Even better if you can get Frank Oz to make me play air guitar at about 2:20 before leaping into an open flame.
In fact, should I ever end up in a persistent vegetative state, I would like to remain on life support. But only if my still-living body may be donated to the science of Muppetry.
Really, though, I'd much rather have my entire body bronzed. Preferably in a distasteful pose that will assure that I never end up anywhere near a respectable cemetery. Masturbating while flipping off the sky would be nice, but feel free to get creative.
If you have to burn me, however, my ashes must be deposited in the coin slot of a Time Expired parking meter. At least some ticket happy ratfuck meter reader will get a face full. I probably won't haunt the shit out of you if my last act is to actually choke someone in law enforcement with my mortal remains, part of which will have once been my genitals.
As to the disposition of my estate... well, there isn't much of that to be disposed of. My brother and my nephew can distribute my videogame and DVD collection between themselves. My books and other personal effects will go to ___, ___, ___, ___, ___, ___, ___*, anyone else I forgot, and my mother. On the condition that they meet each other, wrestle in oil, and attend group therapy sessions afterward. Or during. I'm easy like that.
My wardrobe shall be assembled into full outfits to be deposited -- empty and crumpled -- on the sidewalks of San Francisco in such a manner as to imply their recent occupation by a now mysteriously absent human being. Hopefully this will incite rumors of a micro-rapture. Ideally it will inspire imitators and create a minor subcultural phenomenon that will amuse the press, furnish the homeless with snappy clothes, and collapse the boundary between hobos and hipsters, to the benefit of all.
Royalties accrued from printings or reprintings of any of my work, or profits from patents I've taken out on terrible ideas I've had while stoned, shall be put toward the foundation of the Scott Sharkey Memorial Arcade and Brothel, which will do exactly what it says on the tin."
I really do need to get this thing finished and notarized at some point.
* Names of current and ex girlfriends have been excised to protect the not particularly innocent. In fact, it's reasonably certain that one, or some variable number of them, will have been responsible for my death in the first damn place.
