Ladies and germs,

As you have probably been able to tell from the absence of flames on my shirts, forward-facing nature of my visor, and switch from Land Shark to Coors Original, I haven't exactly been feeling hunky-dory of late. It seems like ever since my buddy, Rick, made me walk home from the mall after I got us banned from Spencer's Gifts, I see the world in a whole new light—and not the black light I shoved down my pants to make it look like I had a neon dong. I know mall security doesn't speak on behalf of everyone, but it's been made clear as a Magnum condom that no one wants me around anymore.

As I'm sure you all remember, it didn't used to be this way. Back in my salad days, people would light up like UV wedding tackle when I entered the room. In fact, before those Mexicans took over the joint, Bart's Tavern would practically turn into the Cleveland Improv after I had a few drinks in me. Stop me if I've told you this one before, but one night I made Richard Lewis laugh so hard with my pantless rendition of the "Frito Bandito" song that Boku shot out of his nose. Not sure what he was doing in Bart's Tavern or why he was drinking from an adult juice box at the bar, but I have at least one eye-witness who's fairly certain there's a possibility it was actually him. True story. But now no one wants to listen to what I have to say. I talk to people while I'm contact juggling down by the pier and it's almost as if Richard Lewis and Boku never existed. Then, after all that, I have to go home to my WebTV and read about this clown Bill Murray partying with young broads and getting asked to star in Ghostbusters III. What does he have that I don't? I've driven a golf cart drunk. I've snuck up on someone in a park in the middle of the night. When he does it, it's golden. When I do it, my wife, Beth, takes the PT Cruiser and both weimaraners. I mean, come on. If he was so funny in Caddyshack, then why don't people laugh when I say his lines word for word while I'm out playing a round? Talking during a persons back swing can only take so much away from the joke.

I realize I could probably just infiltrate the mall by wearing one of the hilarious disguises I purchased at Spencer's Gifts before I was banished (like the elderly man get-up I use to get the senior discount at Long John Silver's), or drive an extra half hour and go to a different one, but it's so much more than just that. I don't even think the kids want anything to do with me anymore. I realize they're all grown up now, want to be with their friends, and are forbidden by Beth, their stepfather, Hank, and The State of New Jersey to be alone in a room with me, but c'mon! I brought them into this world (not to mention a 6-pack of Mike's Hard every weekend of their high school career), I think that deserves a visit or call every now and again. At the very least, an investment in one of my many business ventures.

Beth took most of my things in the divorce, so here's a quick rundown of who I'm leaving my stuff to:

-To Jimmy Buffet, I leave my guitar. I know it's out of tune, but it would be pretty kick-ass if you could play with it in concert. If Jimmy Buffet can't be reached, please give it to Garth Brooks. And if that can't be arranged either, just smash it Belushi style over some stiff in a suit's melon. -To my ex-wife, Beth, I leave the best years of my life. Oh wait, she already has those, am I right? Or am I right? High-five Up high, down low, in the middle (where my body will hopefully succumb to shock and spare me the incredible pain of impact) too slow!-To my children, Kyle, Doug, and Amy, I leave the reigns to all business operations. I know the cheese-less pizza restaurant and sleeve-cutting service have yet to get off the ground, but I've got some pretty big plans scribbled on most of the cocktail napkins I have stuffed in my windbreaker (Note: some are just erotic renderings of Waffle House waitresses, enjoy).-To my brother, Kevin, I leave my novelty platinum blonde hairpiece. I know you never thought it was all that funny when I'd wear this at family gatherings, but I'm hoping someday you'll heed my advice and learn to chill out.-To my nephew, Chris, I leave my real hairpiece. I know you're only 20-years-old, but just because we have different waist sizes doesn't mean we're not wearing the same genes—if you catch my drift.-To the Riverside Mall, I leave my last wordly Brown Julius. -To my buddy, Rick, I leave the hilarious proof. -And finally, to Stony Creek Gorge, I leave my rocking body.

Peace and chicken grease, cruel world,Dale "Dale-Do" Doherty, Esq.—psyche!*

*About the being an esquire thing, I really did kill myself.

P.S. – If you'd like your nose back, it's in the top drawer of my nightstand.P.P.S. – No funeral. P.P.P.S. – Free Bird!