When I'm dead, I want my old truck donated to science. It has hundreds of thousands of miles on it. Every time I take the ratty thing to the mechanic, he says something like, “I don't know how this thing keeps going, man."
Maybe, scientists can figure out the secret, then bottle it up and sell it.
Also: I'd like to give all my money—every cent of it—to the children's choir for at-risk teens. Most of them come from broken homes that make my life look like Windsor Palace.
I once drove three hours to see those kids perform at a high school in
Alabama. I was one of twenty in the audience. Those children danced and sang for two hours until their clothes were sweaty.
For the life of me, I don't know what they have to be so happy about. Whatever it is, they deserve more of it.
Take my house and give it to a worthy cause. Maybe a place for abused women. If you put bunks in each room, you can sleep roughly sixteen. I've done the math. You're going to need a bigger kitchen.
And sixteen more bathrooms.…