MY LIVING WILL
It's been a bad week for famous people -- what with Johnnie Cochran, Terri Schiavo, Frank Perdue, and the Pope (oops... got ahead of myself there by about 45 minutes) all departing this mortal coil. As a Famous Author, this, of course, concerns me.

That is why I am posting my Living Will on this blog. I would also like to note that I am naming Greg and Hot Toddy as executors, because they are the only people I feel I can depend on to fully carry out its provisions.

So read it and don't weep. This is the way I want to go:

I, Famous Author Rob Byrnes, being of sound mind, hereby state that the following represents my wishes, in the event I am on life support with no reasonable possibility of recovery to a sentient state:

1. While my life may seem meaningless to you, and is certainly meaningless to me, please remember that hundreds of thousands millions of fans rely on my existence. It is therefore imperative that I be kept alive by any and all means necessary. Respirator... feeding tubes... those electric-shocky paddles... Bring it all on, kids!

2. But no pain! If there is any indication that I am experiencing pain -- or might experience pain at some indefinite time in the future -- I insist on morphine. Also, for the entire 28 years you're keeping me alive in a vegetative state, I insist on a white wine IV. Because even vegetables can get the DTs.

3. Too often, people who spend decades in bed in a vegetative state eventually are forgotten. As a Famous Author, I would consider this totally unacceptable. Therefore, please do whatever you can to turn my mannequin-like existence into a total circus. Please do everything humanly possible to involve Al Sharpton, Michael Jackson, J-Lo, Anna Nicole Smith, and Robert Blake. Oh -- and Trump, too! And please understand that while I would welcome Congressional debate over whether I should be a lifeless dead person or a lifeless live person, as a Famous Author I really think my fate should lie in the hands of the United Nations. In fact, if you really love me and respect my wishes, you'll do what you can to see that a World War is waged over me.

4. Outside my hospice, I would like the following for the duration of my vegetation: religious fanatics, angry European-style socialist protestors, rock-throwing anarchists, a bunch of fired Apprentice candidates, and a shitload of clowns riding unicycles. Also, there should be a place for bloggers in the media pool, as well as a place for Jeff Gannon Guckert.

5. In the event I absolutely have to die -- like, if decomposition has definitely set in and a bunch of doctors indicate that if they try to turn me over parts of my body will fall off -- then I would like to be sent to the mysterious place where remaindered books are pulped, and added to the... uh... well, I guess I'd be added to the pulp. That way, every time someone picked up a book written by some other author, they'd know that there is the possibility that a little bit of me lives on inside the pages, which will gross them out and, eventually, lead to the end of reading as we know it. And that would be my greatest legacy.

Thanks, kids. Muchly appreciated!