I’m a big supporter of euthanasia so I intend to check out the first time I crap myself in a non-drinking related incident.
Okay, I kid: I've never shit my pants after drinking too much. I may have peed the bed once, but I threw up too and there was so much liquid everywhere I couldn't even tell you what was what. Don’t judge – Jäger's a hell of a shot, and it wasn't my mattress anyway. Point being I’m actually dead serious about killing myself; at the first hint of incontinence, terminal illness, or dementia, I am peacing the fuck outta this bitch with my dignity – if not my cranium – intact.
However, it’s always good to have a back-up plan; I could, after all, botch the job. My one attempt at firing a gun resulted in me sniping a tree. I like trees. I certainly never intended for a tree to fall victim to a senseless shooting in a one way turf war started by me. I mean, seriously, how in the hell do you aim for nothing and manage to hit the one tree in a big ass, open field? Buckshot and bad aim, that’s how!
Anyway, this is why I’m nice to my nieces: just like the bumper sticker says, they could wind up picking my nursing home one day. And while it’s true that I like them and everything, I’d be lying if I said there wasn't an ulterior motive at play. It’s the same reason I’m not going to tell them that Uncle Tinabringmetheaxe is taking a reverse mortgage on the house the day he retires. I don’t even know how I’ll blow the proceeds, but I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll take up crack, and with any luck, blast my aging heart out before I really start to decline – two birds, one rock, as it were – forever memorialized as the crazy old gay uncle who OD’d in his 70’s AND freebased away any semblance of an inheritance.
Whatever. I’ll be dead.