If I die in the next 72 hours, I’m screwed. Bottom line, no exaggeration, no way around it. Until the DHL guy shows up on my doorstep with my crate from Angola, I am officially minus a living will. And I’m still pissed my old one died.

And to add itch to the burn, now I’ve got some “legal expert” on the phone telling me that a living will has nothing to do with shaving your last will and testament onto the back of an anteater and keeping the damned thing in your coat closet. I said okay, smart guy, then what do you say a living will is? He said my name, but I didn’t understand anything he said after that.

So now I’ve got to be careful like a Quaker until Wednesday night: no juggling with knives, no base-jumping, freebasing, or bass guitar. No street luge. No homemade neon signs, no karate-boxing with kangaroos, and no pissing on bikers while they’re sleeping.

I’m keeping myself locked in the bathroom until I hear that DHL knock on the front door. In case that sounds weird to you, don’t get excited. I’m not stupid. I installed a listening tube and ran it through the attic into the bathroom. I could hear a mouse fart on my front doorstep. And I have.

In the mean time, I’ve started to do some long-term planning. I’m not entirely certain what the lifespan of an African anteater is supposed to be. This last one certainly didn’t set the world on fire with his longevity. No Dick Clark of the anteater world, this one. So I’ve started to think I should find myself a living will candidate that lives longer than three months, so I don’t have to go through this bullshit every time I forget to throw some steaks in the coat closet for a few weeks. Oh, and it should be some kind of animal that eats dog food, because those steaks stink up the hallway pretty awful. Fucking picky anteaters.

Some asshole Jehovah’s Witness that I was talking to through the listening tube earlier today had the balls to ask me why I couldn’t just do a regular will on paper, like a normal person. Shit, like this guy knows normal from a Martian dick-tickler. I explained, in my most patient and mannered tone, that he needed to pull his head out of his mother’s ass. The dude still had questions, so I explained further the should-be-obvious point that in a house fire, your normal paper will isn’t going to do a damned thing but fuel the fire, laughing a crackling little laugh in your face as all your hard work goes up in smoke. But a living will, well, pretty much every creature under God’s green earth runs away from the kinds of four-alarm infernos we have regularly on my block. And afterward once you find the right anteater, the one that’s wearing the neckerchief you put on it, bingo, you’ve got your living will back, you no-birthday-having gimp.

So, anybody out there know of anything that lives longer than anteaters? Tortoises, for sure, but you try shaving any amount of text into the back of one of those suckers and get back to me. It’s got to be something with hair, and a reasonable amount of back space. I suppose a Sasquatch would do, since those babies have back like nobody’s business, but you tell me where I find one of those at nine o’clock on a Sunday night and I’ll christen you Captain Fuckin’-A Amazing.