My Full Stop

Well ladies and gents, my time has come. I say this with a little sadness, a heavy heart and a slight stiffness in my left knee. Today I have been diagnosed with an illness that shall soon take my life. I knew all that cracking my knuckles would lead to an untimely end but it just felt so good, who could resist. I have Imminent Death Syndrome.

I've had a lot of time to ponder the finer points of life and death since this news broke almost 12 hours ago and I believe my findings will bring me some peace in my last hours. I've had a good life by very low standards and I have achieved a lot, compared to a horse or a household plant. This is all I could have really asked for as a being of lower inteligence.

I hereby set out my last wishes:
My entire estate shall be auctioned off by Christies of New York on New Years eve 2009 (I appologise for the delay but the vast amount of lots will need to be sorted and categorised). Two items shall be excluded: my rare collection of stamps cut into falic shapes that have been stuck to a roll of toilet paper. This item shall be donated to the Space Museum in Washinton DC. My collection of cum rags shall be disposed of in a hygienic manner. If by the time I die these two items become the same then donation to the museum is preferred. I know these requests contradict former arrangements made in various pubs but I trust you will all understand. Any outstanding legal action against me should be transferred to Maurice Curtin as he is most likely partly resonsible. All outstanding asylum bills shall be left unpaid, as I always disagreed with their policy of charging me for care, seeing as I am a duck.

In relation to the disposal of my remains I wish to have a full funeral and be buried. Exactly one year later I would like Simon Kinane and Ross Duffy to, in the middle of the night, exume my rotting corpse and feed it Tuborg. I wish then (after 13 or so beers and maybe a JD and coke or two depending on how I'm feeling) to be cremated in the fires of Mount St. Helens, placed there at the very moment it next erupts. There shall be a small grave stone erected in honour of me at the north pole. All it shall say is:

Here lies Kevin Pattison - a cock of a man.

I can smell the cold metal of that sithe just over my shoulder now and I will keep this brief. I would like to be remembered as an ugly man, a man who was inept in most ways and was generally unlikable, if not forgettable. A man who smelt bad even when recently washed, as a woman, and as a man who was afraid of farm animals, doors and words beginning in the letter "P".

Good night cruel world ... you bastard. You never looked me in the eye, and I die with a mouth full of wasted saliva.

Kevin

p.s. please take this as advanced notification that I will not be present in work on Monday.