My house is fucking weird.
Now you know why your girlfriend drinks wine all the time… Because you don’t look like that Skarsgård dude from True Blood… and you’re probably an asshole.
So I gave myself a two-week break to make sure it was what I really wanted, but yeah, this is definitely the shirt I want to die wearing and subsequently be buried in. (No wardrobe change between the morgue and the burial plot. Take notes @Oprah.) In fact, I’m so confident I want my corpse to rot in this cloth that from now on it’s the only shirt I’ll be wearing to the zoo. Because let’s be honest, that’s probably where I’ll die. Climbing the fence of some lion enclosure in pursuit of the ultimate selfie; only to be viciously mauled before I even have time to select a filter. (Definitely not Kelvin.) But you know what? I’m totally ok with it. As long as the lions focus the majority of their attack on my face, hands, groin, and legs it’s cool—leaving the shirt unscathed, but they’re free to consume whatever else their large lion hearts desire. #BestDressedTorso
My left leg looks so out of place. I don’t know how the rest of my body is even friends with him. He’s the Joey Fatone of extremities; trying too hard, being all hairy and thick—he doesn’t belong. JC (a.k.a. other leg) and the rest of the crew: Justin (left arm), Lance (right arm), and Chris (ball sack) need to man up and vote him off before he destroys everyone’s image. Either that, or force him to change. I’m fine with either—I’m great at walking on my hands.
I like hoods, hoods like me, they’re great to hide what you don’t want others to see. Hoods can look tough, hoods can look scary, unfortunately you’ll still look dumb if you’re a wizard named Harry. Hoods are good, hoods are rad, wearing a hood is the reason your mom wants me to be your new dad. Hoods can be short, hoods can be long, if you don’t wear the hood on a shirt, jacket, or sweater—you’re wearing it wrong.
Oprah, I doubt you’ll even read this, but I’ve decided this is the shirt I’d like to be buried in. I’m only telling you this because I know someone of your social stature and incredible wealth will find a way to live forever, and thus, longer than me. Whether it’s through cryogenics, human-animal transplants, or robotics, I’m confident you’ll outlive me—so I’m entrusting you with my funeral arrangements. Don’t let me down, and don’t skip on the snacks—I know you can afford it! I want taco trucks, an open bar, and Twizzlers for the first 30 people in the door. I’d also like for Pauly D to DJ the event so all my guests will be jealous and wish they were dead themselves. Finally, I want to ensure there is a short intermission halfway through the 17-hour service to allow attendees to stretch their legs, empty their bladders, and text their friends to tell them if they don’t hurry up they’re going to miss the fire dancers.