My wife and I have apparently reached an age where there is a consistent probability that one, the other, or both of us will drop dead at any moment. Which is to say we have a toddler running about the house – an entity that possesses the animalistic exuberance needed to commit casual serial murder but currently lacks the requisite height to assail our most vital organs. That and we’ve limited her to plastic tableware.
Regardless, it was brought to our attention that we need a will. Furthermore, it needs to be more legally binding than the one we presently have. What we presently have is an old Fruit Loop box upon which, while inebriated, I once scrawled, “The broad gets all my !@#%” in black permanent marker.
Hey, it’s cool – I signed it and everything.
But it will not hold up in court, or so I am told. Thus, we embarked on a quest to have an official will drawn up – a task from which I thought myself forever exempt courtesy of being an English major, marrying an English major, and having an annual household income second only to most third world child laborers. Still, according to the parenting books I was given and thumbed through before being relegated to the vital task of evening out uneven chair legs, the responsible thing to do is see that our daughter has formal legal claim over whatever ramen is left in our cupboards.
Yet herein lies the problem because wills, like taxes, are complicated. We needed a little help.
Luckily, we knew a guy. Say “hello” to the good people, Clippy.
Nice to see you, too. So without further ado – let us prepare for the inevitable, ready ourselves for oblivion, memento mori, etc.
Yeah, well, no one’s seen you since 2007, so what’s your excuse?
How the hell was I supposed to know that? Goldfish are pretty dependent. It comes with not having hands. Or feet. Or vocal chords. Or the ability to pull oxygen from the air.
An entire Hollywood production dedicated to a quartet of high school airheads and a pair of magical britches – what’s there to forgive? The inane concept? The existence of sequels? The HUNDRED !@#$IN’ MINUTES OF MY LIFE I’LL NEVER GET BACK?
Shut up, Clippy. Let’s just…get back to work.
Says the guy who used to be bundled with Windows ME.
All’s fair in love and war. C’mon – let’s get back to work.
For once we agree.
Someone has to keep the flowers watered.