The Last Will And New Testament Of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr.

I, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., being of sound mind and failing health in my 73rd year do hereby set down in words this final and irrefutable disposal of all my worldly goods.

No matter what anyone may say to the contrary, this document represents my true wishes, written without undue influence except perhaps by the uncomfortably close and ever-looming shadow of my Maker. May He prove to be the first honest and faithful authority I encounter in a lifetime of lonely, self-reliant struggle. And may He understand that what transpired in my lifetime, much of which may appear of questionable humanitarian purpose, was merely a matter of good business practice and never anything personal.

Oh, damn . . . ! No sooner do I write those words than a soft, unfamiliar voice (could it be my conscience after all these years?) whispers, "Is that entirely true, Henry? Good business practice and never anything personal?"

What right does a conscience have to speak to me now--answer me that--after a lifetime spent in silence?

I know what’s wrong, and why I suffer myself to sit up in my sick bed scribbling to replace a will previously drawn and re-drawn half a dozen times. This very morning, awaking from a dream in which I’d been dragging dead weights across the floor of the Boston Stock Exchange, I looked over at my nightstand to find amidst the panoply of pills and potions a thin, black vinyl-covered copy of The New Testament. Left, no doubt, by an overzealous nurse or one of you, my dear children, desperate for a larger share of my appreciation and, ultimately, my fortune.

Well, no complaints there. That’s the way I brought you up and I have no right to complain if you prove apt pupils in the end. I suppose I should even be proud, but I raised you so damn well in my own image I can’t stand the sight of you.

And now all of you—my five progeny, my attorneys, my associates, even my ex-wives—will laugh, and with good reason, to hear that Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. woke up on his death bed to find the New Testament staring at him like a snake placed in his path by an ironic deity. Funnier still, that when I angrily picked it up to fling across the room, my eye—still sharp as ever--was caught by a saying from the text that went right to my heart and stayed my hand from its angry gesture.

And for those critics who implied otherwise, I hereby affirm that I, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., did actually have a heart. Not my fault if it was so small most people naturally overlooked it.

But I digress, and there is little time for diversions. I feel the shadows closing in and can barely write as my fingers struggle to grip the pen.

The words that caught my eye, from the Gospel of Luke, caused something magical, or maybe I should say mystical, to happen. In an instant, I saw that this fragile life to which I was clinging was only one of many lives my spirit had taken on. And when the time soon came for me to die, that same spirit would not vaporize into nothingness but rather take on a shiny new body and a lifetime of yet-to-be-sampled experiences.

Now laugh if you want, but the funniest part is still to come, because I also saw that everything I did in this incarnation would have consequences in the next. And, as most of you know better than I, mine was a life spent far from the fields of brotherly love and higher ideals.

And so, if you look below you’ll find a long list of charities to which I bequeath my entire fortune down to the last penny, yacht and offshore tax shelter.

As for you, my children, I leave the wisdom garnered in these last fateful moments of my existence. And my apologies for abandoning your needs to once again serve my own selfish purposes.

But there’s a lesson in this worth more than the $350 million dollars you almost inherited. And that is, to make sure you never go anywhere in life, or death, without adequate insurance. I knew I had almost failed to provide such insurance for myself—call it travel insurance--when I read those fateful words from Jesus, "Give, and it shall be given unto you . . ."

As a tired old man completing his last piece of business in this lifetime, I just wish Jesus had given me more detailed instructions.

The In-Transit Report of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr.

TO: The Boss
FROM: The In-Transit Steering Committee
DECEASED IN-TRANSIT: Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., age 73
OCCUPATION: Millionaire Attorney
DISPOSITION: See recommendations below

The In-Transit Steering Committee would like to thank The Divine Arranger for sending us Mr. Worthmore. As Your Most Austere Presence knows, we’ve had a rather difficult few months of late, what with all the disasters and wars taking place around the planet. It’s been rare, then, that we’ve had the pleasure to review a life as amply filled with potential but as sadly devoid of redeeming qualities as Mr. Worthmore’s.

To add to our enjoyment, this was a life where the principal player couldn’t have been more transparent in pursuing his self interest than if he had worn subtitles across his chest explaining his motives.

Sister Margaretha, who takes great rewards from small blessings, was highly voluble about Mr. Worthmore’s many acts of ‘faux charity,’ as she likes to call them. Like all Investigating Angels, the good Sister can plug into anything said, thought or fantasized by the subject when he was alive. In going over his many acts of charity, and listening to Mr. Worthmore’s inner dialogue as he made each gift, Sister Margaretha was unable to find a single instance of gift-giving where Mr. Worthmore didn’t prove to be the ultimate beneficiary.

Even down to his Christmas presents!

If The Ultimate Deity would press button 44Q below, He will see a sampling of Mr. Worthmore’s sorrowful gift-giving episodes. Watch closely as he gives Christmas presents to each of his five children; and listen to him measuring in his mind exactly what he expects in return.

In going over Mr. Worthmore’s HOG Rating, we saw the subject had consumed far more than his fair share of the planet’s resources. His fleet of cars, his 149 foot yacht, his homes and mansions of unnecessary magnitude--usually housing nothing more than his vaunted ego--were all held in orbit by the pull of an insatiable appetite. Even when providing gainful employ to servants and employees, Mr. Worthmore inevitably sucked more essence from them than they could ever take from him.

Brother Barnabus took particular exception to the subject’s repeated use of the phrase "It’s just business. Nothing personal." According to our angelic colleague, the phrase became a sort of mantra for Mr. Worthmore and was used repeatedly to explain and excuse a wide sweep of aggressive, anti-social behavior. Again, if The Singular Divinity would press button 23D below, He will experience Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. coveting literally anything of notable attraction or value that he didn’t already own. You’ll see him blithely step over the broken dreams of family members, competitors and innocent bystanders to gain himself even the most pathetic of advantages. Each time trumpeting "It’s just business. Nothing personal" as his own moral ‘get out of jail free’ card. You’ll discover that nothing but his widely anticipated demise could ever stop Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. from pursuing and acquiring more. And more. And ever more.

Nor was any person or institution safe from his acquisitive nature, not even Your Church. If Your Most Exalted Presence would press button 65D, You will join Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. on a Sunday morning in St. Patricia’s. The segment opens as he is removing $12 change for the $10 bill he has just placed in the offering basket. We might link his incredible behavior to the fact he thought he wasn’t being observed, but in truth his assets had dropped precipitously in recent days—to less than $225 million—and he was merely searching for new ways to stabilize his income.

SUMMATION: Born to money, child of privilege and class, member of the bar, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. unfortunately squandered all opportunities for growth, brotherhood and the pursuit of truth offered to him in his lifetime. Ill-disposed to use his considerable assets or high social standing for the good of others, he became a human sucking-and-eating machine, amassing a great fortune, expensive holdings and a life devoid of friends or congeniality. His funeral drew a large crowd, though relief and celebration were more in evidence than mourning.

RECOMMENDATIONS: We recommend the spirit of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. be given another body and sent back to earth, only this time as a humble creature exploited by people who are exact replicas of his former self. We also recommend that throughout his new life he be continually tormented by: doors that stick, neighborhood bullies, mistakes on his credit rating, incorrect assembly instructions, a lack of rhythm, IRS audits and a recurring skin rash. Perhaps crooked teeth, as well . . . though these days that can be too easily corrected.

Your August Oneness can see it would be unthinkable for us to recommend Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. be moved higher up on his PEL (Personal Evolution Ladder). He has earned none of our respect or admiration and, really, very little of Your Mercy.

And that’s without going into his years as a Massachusetts politician.

BACK IN THE U.S. OF A.

Flew in from My Daddy’s Beach, to the RNC
Didn't get to bed last night
Counting money the poor will never see
Man, I had a first class flight
I'm back in the U.S. of A.
You don't know how lucky you are, boy
Back in the U.S. of A!

Been away so long they hardly knew my face
Gee, it's good to be back home
Tipped them 20 dollars just to carry my case
Bernie, send my money home
I'm back in the U.S. of A.
You don't know how needy they are, boy
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S. of A.

Well the tax loopholes really knock me out
They leave the rest behind
And Texas moguls make me sing and shout
Their flim-flam-doodles always on my my my my my my my my my mind

Well the hungry folks really knock me out
Make me leave my cares behind
Those starving kids make me sing and shout
That bread line always on my my my my my my my my my mind

Oh, let me share your billions
Brother, put them in my mouth
Take me to my accountant’s farm
Let me hear your lobbyists singing out
Come and keep my millions warm
I'm back in the U.S. of A.
Hey, you don't know how needy they are, boy
Back in the U.S. of A.
Just let me count my money
I'm back in the U.S. of A.
You don't know how greedy you are, boys
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S. of A.