All Bite, No Bark

The date has been set. The date of my throat-cutting. Tuesday, May 25, around 10:00 a.m. Central Daylight Time.

I suppose I should be making hay while the sun shines. Or singing like Julie Andrews before I lose my magnificent vocal skills like she did. Or making a list of things I want to lecture my boys about over the summer, just in case I am unable to lecture them. Maybe I could record some standard scoldings and play them back as needed. Something along the lines of:

Stop hitting your brother.
Take out the trash.
Put away your socks and underwear.
No.
I said no.
Gather the eggs.
Catch that cat and take him out.
Get your shoes off the couch.
Throw away that wrapper.
Rinse your bowl.
Unjam the icemaker.
Bring me a Pepcid.
Get out of bed.
Go to bed.
Where's the remote?
Bring me the mail.
Stop it!
Connect me to internet.
Who did that?
Why is The Pony bleeding?
Are you OK?
Where's your dad?
Is that trash or dead animal parts in the yard?
What do you want for breakfast?
What do you want for lunch?
What do you want for supper?
What are you reading?
Haven't you seen this show already?
Where did you have it last?
Help me carry in the groceries.
Leave him alone.
Thank you.
I love you.

Yep. That should just about do it.