Dear Diary;
Not feeling too swell these days. Sister Juanita insists it’s all the cheese I’ve been eating, but I’m thinking it’s just my life winding down. I dunno, maybe it is the cheese… Either way, I gotta start making some arrangements and writing things down. Just in case. So here’s my initial list. Juanita is gonna have it notarized and we’ll keep it somewhere safe:

I wanna be buried in the scarlet satin chasuble. The one with the velvet trim and delicate gold piping. NOT the one with the silver piping (I look like shit in silver). If there’s any confusion, look for the tequila stain on the right, about four inches down. (I didn’t bother changing after Mass one Sunday and things got a bit sloppy…) Just put it right over my Pajama Jeans (if I’m gonna spend eternity with the Heavenly Father, I wanna be comfortable). And don’t bother dressing me in an alb: they make me itchy…

I’m leaving my money to the Holy Sisters of Saint Norbert in Wankbahn, Germany. Partly because they sent me a box of the best Pfeffernüsse cookies I’ve ever tasted, partly because they kindly asked me for help to buy a large-screen plasma TV for movie night, and partly because it makes me laugh out loud to say Wankbahn (hell – I chortle just writing it!). They can have all my savings, except for about 65 Euros for Sister Marietta, the chambermaid who keeps leaving a tip envelope on my bedside table. I want someone to give it to her with a note that reads, are you happy now, you persistent bitch? (If I die in bed, change the note so it reads, clean up this shit!)

I’m leaving Monsignor Alcoser my Olive Garden Loyalty Card. Whenever Joe visited me at the office, we’d dress up as Franciscan monks, don French accents and hit the Garden. Good times! There are two free meals left on the Card, and they don’t expire for another seven months so he has plenty of time…

I’m leaving Sister Juanita my Bullet. She knows why.

I’m leaving Jorge my sixth-century, emerald-green silk fanon. It never looked that good on me, and it smells funny. Besides, I stole it last year from the papal wardrobe when they turned the heat down too low (cheap-ass fuckers), so technically it’s already his. I’m also leaving him my water pick. He knows why.

I want Cher to sing at my Funeral. And none of that Ave Maria crap: I want something upbeat. Ask her to sing The Shoop Shoop Song. With backup singers. Try to pack the place with celebrities, like they did for Princess Di. Make sure someone invites George Clooney (he’s soooo hot!).

And no sarcophagus downstairs from the office, for crap’s sake: I know about the drinking parties down there… I wanna be buried by the ocean. And for the love of Saint Pete, make sure I’m completely dead first!

Yup… I think that’s it.