Pretty Funny frm the New Yorker

MY LIVING WILL
by PAUL RUDNICK
Issue of 2005-04-25Posted 2005-04-18
1. If I should remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than fifteen years, I would like someone to turn off the TV.
2. If I remain motionless for an extended period and utter only guttural, meaningless sounds, I would like a Guggenheim.
3. If I am unable to recognize or interact with friends or family members, I still expect gifts.
4. If I am unable to feed, clean, or dress myself, I would like to be referred to as “Mr. Trump.”
5. Do not resuscitate me before noon.
6. If I do not respond to pinches, pinpricks, rubber mallets, or other medical stimuli, please stop laughing.
7. If I no longer respond to loved ones’ attempts at communication, ask them about our last car trip.
8. Once I am allowed to die a painless and peaceful death, I would like my organs donated to whoever can catch them.
9. If my death is particularly dramatic, I would like to be played by Hilary Swank, for a slam dunk.
10. If there is any family dispute over my medical condition, it must be settled with a dreidel.
11. Even if I remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than fifteen years, that still doesn’t mean bangs.
12. If my doctor pronounces me brain-dead, I would like to see the new Ashton Kutcher movie.
13. If I remain unconscious during a painful, lingering illness, I would like the following life lessons to be published in a book entitled “Tuesdays with Paul”:
i. Treasure every moment.
ii. Love everyone.
iii. If you bought this in hardcover, you’re an idiot.
14. I do not wish to be kept alive by any machine that has a “Popcorn” setting.
15. I would like to die at home, surrounded by my attorneys.
16. If my loved ones insist that the cost of my medical care has become an impossible burden, show them a Polaroid of their “beach shack.”
17. In lieu of flowers or donations, I would prefer rioting.
18. I would like my entire estate to become the property of my cat, Fluffy, who said, “He wouldn’t want to live like this, with that zit.”
19. Assume that, even in a coma, I can still hear discussions about my apartment.
20. If there is any talk of canonizing me, please remember that I have often held the elevator for people who were still getting their mail, that I have twice offered a cab to a woman in a fur coat even though I was totally there first, and that I always waited to make derogatory comments until after the couple with the double stroller was a block away.
21. In the event of an open coffin, I would like smoky evening eyes.
22. At my memorial service, I would like my clergyman to begin his eulogy with the words “I suppose, in a way, we all killed him.”

Hey, That's Just Not My Bag, OK?

Something has to be done about this business of people walking around with dog poop in little plastic bags. Maybe this happens in your neighborhood too -- some otherwise normal person follows his or her dog around, waits for it to poop -- and then cleans up the poop, putting it a little bag that wobbles and sways around like some kind of lucky charm all the way home. Think about it: Adults---Carrying dog poop around---In little bags. Would your dog do this for you? How did we let things get this far gone? I was going to suggest that dog poop carriers keep some kind of larger bag such as a purse or satchel in which to place the little bag out of sight. I realize, though, that much of this activity has to do with making a cultural statement: “I am taking my dog out for a walk and even though my dog poops all over the neighborhood I pick it up as a good neighbor should. You can tell this by looking at this little bag of poop that I dangle in a conspicuous manner.” The other thing is -- I think the dogs themselves are embarrassed by all of this. They can’t tell you, of course, but how are dogs to comport themselves with dignity knowing that their owners (sorry, “human companions”) are waving their (the dogs’, that is) poop around for everybody to see? So the whole thing is pathetic all around. Now I don’t like dogs very much and as you might guess I don’t like dog poop even more. But I wonder if things might be more pleasant if, rather than having to watch people carrying dog poop, I were to occasionally spot or even step in some dog poop on my own lawn, just like in the olden days.

George Will

Interesting Assessment of Pope John Paul II by George Will
George Will

Delusions of Competence

A little over a year ago I went to Menard’s and bought a new garage door to replace the ailing one that was being held together by bailing wire. For some reason I had the strange notion that I could actually remove the old door and install the new one all by myself. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHA!“ You're right, of course. The Menard’s guy delivered the new door in two very large and very heavy cartons that remained in our garage for about 11 months. The reason for the delay was the fact that I made the mistake of reading the instructions, a 36 page heavily detailed manual that states one page one, “You can install your new garage door yourself IF: 1) you have help; 2 you have the right tools and reasonable mechanical aptitude or experience; and 3. You follow these instructions very carefully.” Numbers 1 and 3 seemed at least possible, but when I read number 2, I felt the old sphincter tighten up. My paternal grandfather at one time actually taught what was then called “manual arts” in a Wisconsin high school. He failed, however, to pass any these genes on to me and the more I read of the instructions the faster my hopes faded. Sprinkled throughout the manual are no less than 18 (count ’me) bright read caution signs warning me of various dangers. The words “severe injury” or “very dangerous.” or “strangulation” occur in each of these warnings. I set the project aside for several months and consulted with a relative who I knew was capable of finding his butt with both hands. He informed me that the spring on my new garage door was an especially wicked kind and that he had actually attended a class once on how to install them. The guy that taught the class (I’m not making this up) was MISSING AN ARM, a result of his failing to take the necessary precautions. NEVERTHELESS, I did open up the cartons, each of which contained what appeared to be a complete disassembled aircraft carrier. Enough. Reality took hold. I finally managed to locate a guy who said he could install the door. He showed up today while I was at work. My wife said he “had huge muscles” and was “really cute.” I know she enjoyed sharing this information with me -- also the fact that he accomplished the entire task (including installing a new opener) in three hours. “He didn’t swear once,” she added. What possessed me to think that I could take this on in the first place? Maybe somebody spiked my prune juice with testosterone. I sure could use a shot now.