Congratulations on Finding Your Dad's Old Porn!

When your father dies you’ll be overjoyed. Most people would be crestfallen, perturbed or at the very least, unnerved and concerned with their own mortality. But not you! You’re kind of a dick, and you’ll just be positively psyched to potentially be getting all of your dad’s stuff now that he’s dead.

So you’ll breeze through the ceremony surrounding your dad’s death smiling like an idiot and shaking hands with such vigor and positivity that all of your guests will think you’ve suffered a mental break. They’ll depart the wake and funeral thinking that you’ve become dangerously mentally unbalanced and that you’re gonna do something crazy, but really you’ll just have been fantasizing about the sweet, sweet green your daddy done left for you.

It will all come together today. Today is the reading of your father’s will, and you’ll show up to it in a pair of bahama shorts and a Hawaiian t-shirt so that the moment you get the money your dad left you you can go on a Jimmy Buffet style hedonistic rampage through whatever island culture is unfortunate enough to have the lowest ticket prices on Orbitz when you get home without even the slightest delay.

And after a seemingly eternal (fifteen minute) reading of your father’s will where he announces that he’s providing the contents of his bank account entirely to your mother (Booo!), his varied real estate developments to your twin sisters (cunts), and the contents of his safe deposit box to you your goal will finally seem within reach. Sure, you won’t be expecting the kind of windfall you were all but jacking off to earlier in the day, but you’ll still be excited. Your heart will be bursting out of your chest with its tough little pitter patter, and when you pull up to the bank you’ll be humming “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” doing your best to time the slap of your flip flops on the pavement to the beat of the song.

When you step inside the bank and inform them of the situation they’ll offer their sympathies, but by this point you’ll be finished even pretending to care. You’ll just shrug and say “Yeah, rough. Dad’s dead. Ah well. Let’s see his shit!”

The customer service agent helping you won’t really know what to say to that, so he’ll just wordlessly lead you down into the bank’s vault, where rows upon rows of tiny little steel boxes will rest one upon the other upon the other. Then he’ll insert his key into said box and leave to let you peruse its contents on your own.

You’ll practically be drooling when you open it up, which will make the outcome all the more inappropriate. Instead of finding stacks and stacks of cash money and passports proving your dad to be some sort of Jason Bourne type figure, you’ll just find a phenomenal number of stained vintage Playboys. Were it not for the (you hope) water damage and heavy use of the magazines, they might be worth a tidy sum at a rummage sale or on the internet. But their condition will render them worthless to any would-be collectors.

You’ll dig through the magazines one by one, hoping to find some sort of hidden clue to riches beneath them all, but nothing will appear. When you do finally reach the bottom there will, at last, be a note, neatly folded. When you unfold it its edges will be sticking together. You’ll have to take the utmost care not to rip it apart, but when you do reveal its message it’ll more or less explain everything.

“Son – I jacked off on all these magazines and you just dug through them. Ha ha, faggot! - Dad”

You’ll drop the note and make a derp face when you realize what you’ve just had to endure for all of zero fucking dollars. Then you’ll start weeping, dropping to your knees in the empty bank vault room. After a few seconds of that the sobs will turn to laughter as you realize that you inherited something far, far more important than money from your dad: his incredible capacity for being an asshole.

Congratulations on Finding Your Dad’s Old Porn!