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

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… Well… You 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 have 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 life should I ever leave this world. Outta respect for what we've built together, and the sweet memories I’ve made between those heavenly hosts.” He said, gesturing towards her breasts.

Pauline blinked. Smiled. Didn’t move.

Daly jabbed her gently in the sternum with a cocktail sausage.

“I’m serious, Pauline. One day you’ll join me in Valhalla. I’ll be waitin’ there… arms wide open… alongside a welcoming congregation of large breasted women you’ve never met, but who will have taken exceptional care of me in the meantime. They’ll show you around our eternal polyamorous compound in the clouds, and assign you to your eternal tasks.”

The family all 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.”

He locked eyes with one of his children.

“I want my body lowered into a vat of boiling oil at the original Hooters in Clearwater, Florida.”

His eyes glazed with nostalgia at the thought of his childhood home.

“Duncan,” he said, pointing to one of his 8 sons, each born of a different Pauline, “this responsibility falls to you. You’ll need to speak with the GM. He’s a man of integrity. He’ll know why you're there when you mention your mother's name. Tell him to prep the egg wash and breadcrumbs.”

Duncan nodded bravely.

“I intend to leave this world the same way I entered it,” Daly said. “In a Hooters.”

He scanned the table, making eye contact with each of his children, most of whom were conceived in various Hooters across the American South.

Silence fell over the happy gathering.

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

“But I’m just being cautious here. I still plan on attending every single one of your funerals.”

He pointed his cocktail around the table.

“And when that day comes… you can count on me to sing you into eternal rest during Karaoke Thursday at my favorite Hooters in John’s Pass.”