Congratulations on Inheriting Your Dad's Iron Lung!

Your dad’s a sick man, and his medical bills keep getting higher and higher. He’s had to sell everything he had to stay alive, and you’ve had to sell most of what you own to keep him that way. After five years of struggling against acute organ failure disease (where all the organs in your body fail) all you have left in your name is a 1992 Econoline van with a super sweet detail job of Wolverine from the X-Men on it, your Casio keyboard and a collection of suits you won in a contest from Men’s Warehouse which, due to a contract you signed upon accepting the suits, cannot be traded for legal tender.

Yesterday the unthinkable happened: your dad finally passed on. He was 94, and he died in his sleep.

Today is the first day of moving on, and it’ll begin with the reading of your father’s will. You’ll be standing in the lawyer’s office, holding your Casio keyboard under one arm while you wear one of your many cheap-looking suits. The lawyer will stare at you for around fifteen minutes before his assistant, the effective witness of the proceedings, enters from her lunch break. She’ll look bored at first but, when she notices your keyboard she’ll nod at you.

“You in a band?” she’ll ask before snapping her gum.

“Sorta,” you’ll respond, scratching your head and staring at her tits.

“Cool,” she’ll slur, pulling down her shirt a little. The lawyer will ignore your exchange and begin reading your dad’s will. It will consist of him saying.

“To my son: I leave my only possession: my iron lung: end colons.”

You’ll respond by wiping a single tear from your eye and then pumping your fist into the air.

“TITS!” you’ll shout. You’ll run out to your van and drive it straight to the hospital, ignoring the lawyer’s secretary as she watches you leave. When you arrive you’ll find that the hospital hasn’t thrown out the iron lung yet, which means it’ll be all yours. You’ll spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how to sell a used iron lung, mostly by Googling the question in an internet cafe. When nothing good comes up you’ll resign yourself to keeping it in the van and go back to thinking about how you can get the band back together again without the use of a telephone or a permanent address of any kind.

Congratulations on Inheriting Your Dad’s Iron Lung!