I, Herman Pfeister, being of sound mind and body do hereby declare this will for the disposal of my goods and these instructions for carrying out my final requests.
Now that I finally have your attention guys, it’s time for me to talk and for you to listen.
I was the youngest and you never took me seriously. You ignored whatever I had to say. Supposedly joint family decisions never included my input. Well, now I’ve finally got you where I want you. So, shut up and listen carefully.
Here’s the deal. Instead of dividing my valuables in the traditional way, I decided to have a contest, a kind of family and friends Olympics.
Linda, you’ve been eyeing my rare book collection. Don’t deny it. I see they way you drool in my library. The signed first editions are your dream. The question is, what do you have to do to get them?
Badminton. You’ve got to beat Bobby at badminton, two sets out of three. Yeah, that’s right you lazy fat layabout. Get your tubby ass off the chair and move your body some. It’ll do you good. And Uncle Bob sucks at badminton. You might even stand a chance.
And Bobby. I know you hate when people call you Bobby, but what’re you gonna do about it? Your work isn’t done after the badminton match. No, that’s just a warmup.
You are going to clean out my basement. My filthy dank dark wet stinky basement. Why? Because you want my Bugatti. You want it real bad? Bad enough to clean out my basement until you can eat off the floor. Oh, and you WILL eat off the floor. Or no car.
But the best is for you, my beloved Janet. My sweet lovely two-timing wife. You didn’t know I knew? Oh, I knew all right. But I but my tongue and kept me Glock in the holster. I prefer the surprise attack, the one I’m using on you right now.
Here’s the requirements to get my money. Because without my money, you’ve wasted eight years of your life, your best eight years. You aren’t getting younger, sweetie. Face it. Everybody can see the lines in your face. They can see it right through that expensive foundation. Even Michael—that’s his name, isn’t it?—even he can see it. But he’s sticking around for the money, too. You don’t want to disappoint him.
But sadly, you must. These are terms.
For the next year, you will not wear any makeup and will not shave your legs or armpits. You will wear cloths only purchased from J.C. Penny.
And you will not see or in any way communicate with Michael. If you meet these terms and if Michael agrees to marry you, then you get my money.
Nah. Forget it. I’m just giving the money to the Salvation Army. Gotcha.