As I get older, I often feel like going to see a fortune teller. I don’t really believe in going to see fortune tellers, but I’d be willing to compromise my convictions if I thought it could help me execute my grand plan.
I’d ask the fortune teller to please tell me the exact day and hour that I am going to die. And if I was confident that the fortune teller’s prophecy was correct, here’s what I’d do. Twenty-four hours before the moment of my untimely death, I would go to the nearest strip club. I don’t really believe in going to strip clubs either, but I’d be willing to compromise my convictions again if I thought it could help me execute my grand plan.
Because a few years ago, I sold my soul to the devil. Actually, it’s more like I sold my soul to the government. I inherited some money. It wasn’t a lot. But as every cripple knows, in order to be eligible to receive certain government services, like Medicaid, you have to stay under certain puny asset limits. It doesn’t take a big inheritance to put you over the asset line. I rely on one such program to pay the wages of the people I employ to get my ass in and out of bed every day. If I took the money, I would lose my service, and thus be stuck in bed. It’s a real inheritance buzzkill.
But the government said to me, “Don’t worry. You can receive your inheritance and still remain eligible. Just sign here.”
So I signed. What else could I do? And with that, all of my inherited money above the asset limit was deposited into a trust. But the devil’s deals always have a catch. And the catch in this case is that any money left in that trust when I die goes to the government.
That sucks. I can’t leave that money to my wife or an