The following is a brief list of things that you should not do at that point, long in the future, when I have died.

• Do not display my dried-up, beef jerky-looking carcass anywhere so people can line up for it like it’s Space Mountain.
• Do not go on a multi-city "Anil’s Dead!" tour where my corpse is passed around the country like a beach ball at a rock concert.
• Do not get all Solemn and Respectful. I can take it as well as I dish it out, and I don’t expect my skin to get thinner after I’m dead.
• Burial? Uh uh. Cemeteries are a waste of space. Give my organs to whomever wants them, and cremate the rest. You can start a rumor about me haunting a French cemetary if you want.
• Don’t give me credit for having "one of the great love stories of all time" if all I’ve done is not run off on my wife and kids. You’re supposed to like your wife. If I crawl across the desert for 4 months to see her, then you can play it up a little.
• Please don’t dwell on that story of how I had to march in front of my entire hometown after getting hit in the head with an egg during the Homecoming parade. It’s just unseemly.
• Do not cancel any goddamn Stevie Wonder performances! What could be more of a celebration of life than a Stevie Wonder performance?
• Do not put any of my old cronies on CNBC to talk about old fart anecdotes from The Good Old Days. Get some high school girls to talk about how "He was pretty hot, for an old guy."

That’s it. See you in hell!