John Daly Reviews Will with Family—In the Off Chance They Outlive Him

Nobody ever likes to talk about it. It’s awkward. Morbid. Unpleasant.

But last night, over a mountain of smoked ribs and deep fried animal parts John Daly broached the unlikely possibility of his death:

“There’s a chance,” Daly said between bites of brisket and menthol exhales, “albeit a small one… that ol’ Papa Daly might one day… y’know…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Sometime in the next 40–80 years, give or take,” he continued. “It could happen. Stranger things have.”

“In the unlikely event I should ever die... before any of you,” he said, lighting up a fresh menthol, “I got some instructions. Specific ones. And I expect ‘em followed to the damn letter.”

“Pauline,” he said, voice suddenly tender addressing his girlfriend of 5 months. “I know we’ve never married. I’ve also made it crystal clear that we never will. But I’d like you to remain celibate for the remainder of your natural born life should I ever leave this world. Outta respect for what we've built together.” He said, gesturing at his outdoor kitchen that surrounded them.

Pauline blinked, smile unflinching.

Daly jabbed her in the sternum with a cocktail sausage he found under his collar. “I mean it, Pauline. One day, you’ll join me in Valhalla. I’ll be waitin’ there... with open arms and a congregation of large breasted women with similar builds as you, who’ll welcome you into our eternal polyamorous compound in the clouds.”

The room laughed. Daly knew this was going very well.

“And don’t think I won’t know if you stray. I’ll haunt you. Hell, I’ll haunt all y’all. But especially you, Pauline.”

Daly shifted to logistics.

“As for my earthly remains,” he said, crushing a Busche light on his stomach, making impact with his liver, “I wanna be cremated. But not in no crematorium.”

The room leaned in.

“I want my body lowered into a vat of boiling oil at the original Hooters in Clearwater, Florida,” Daly said, eyes misting over as he thought about his childhood home.

He gestured toward Duncan, one of his more emotionally stable children. “Duncan, I'm leaving you up to this task. You’ll need to speak to the GM. He’s a man of integrity. He’ll know what to do. Tell him to prepare the egg yolks and breadcrumbs for my eternal rest.”

Duncan nodded solemnly.

“I intend to leave this world as I entered it… in a Hooters,” Daly said, locking eyes with each of his children, most of whom were conceived in various Hooters across the south.

Silence fell over the room.

Then John Daly grinned, popped a bacon-wrapped jalapeño into his mouth, and whispered:

“But I'm just being safe here... I still intend on being at earch and every one of your funerals." He said pointing a cocktail at everyone that surrounded him.

"And on that day... You can count on me to sing you to your rest during Karaoke Thursdays at my favorite Hooters in Johns Pass."