I’ve grown fond of publicly writing the phrase, “as I begin to approach middle age.” It irritates many literal thinkers with sound math and logic skills. They note if I’m three-quarters of the way to 100, ergo, by claiming I’m approaching middle age, then I’ll live to be 150, which, with the right diet, exercise and staying far away from banjo music, I see as doable.

A dear friend (93) has been nagging me the last several months to get myself a proper and notarized last will and testament. Over the years, I’ve had several. Depending on which ex-flame’s patience I was testing, a Betty Lou was scheduled to get the poker chips and Blanche would win the elk’s head. If she survived me.

For clarity and PETA’s sake, it should be pointed out the elk’s head is no longer attached to the elk. The forest grazer from the Cervus canadensis species made his transition decades ago when his head was removed by the taxidermist and, for eternity, he carries a much more intelligent and noble expression than some of my exes or blood relatives.

I’m kidding.

Blanche will never get the elk’s head.

Although, if the elk were still with us, I might be tempted to write up a will and leave him Blanche’s noggin.

Stuffed human ex-wife heads. When giving gifts, which anniversary year is that?

Anywho. Where was I? Gotta write up a will and settle who gets what. This should be pretty easy because except for the six bucks in chemicals that make up my body, I don’t have much. I’ve got a $1,000 O’Farrell 1000X........

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