In the spirit of my many generous donations to the Society of My Kids’ Bad Choices, I hereby leave my two useless sons these three beans, which I used your inheritance to purchase while drunk at a pub in Yorkshire. It is still a wiser investment than either of you two pisspots ever made.
To my beloved succubus Sara I leave you nothing and have instead chosen to give it to Dale Buford, your gold-digging lover, in the sincerest hope that the only thing of yours he wanted to get his hands on was your money.
My remaining forty million I leave to Conrad Little, the poor devil my jackass son fired last week on a dare. My fortune is yours on the stipulation that you make a point to rub it in his face as often and as opulently as possible. I don’t know where I went wrong but I leave you the means to make it right.
And finally to the Edgewood Historical Society, this is rather awkward as I have been officially broke since the start of this sentence so I can only offer my humble apologies for pissing on your bust of Churchill in 2004. Please understand it was purely political and had nothing to do with my feelings about the historical society at large. I do not bear you any ill will for subsequently removing me from the Board of Governors. Had I been in your position, I would have done the same thing.