The Last Supper Jokes

When I die, I want it to be memorable, not the way I die but the way I leave. Okay, maybe the way I die.

Hillary Clinton’s sitting on my face ignoring the Morse code signal that I’m supposed to tap onto her cottage cheese thigh when I need air. She’s riding my face like a jockey on the last leg of the derby, my only option is to fade into the sweaty abyss of her baby boomer snatch like Jack Dawson at the end of Titanic. Why would Hillary Clinton be riding my face you ask? Let’s just say that I am a very wealthy Democrat, and I also carry hot sauce with me everywhere I go. Back to my real point, my exit strategy. I don’t want to be embalmed, all those chemicals freak me out. Not to mention the way people compete for the most interesting life now on social media, people taking selfies with dead bodies is not far off. #DEADBONER is going to be a hit. 

Any ways as I die I want to immediately be put on ice, all of my family and friends will be notified. There will be a pre-determined location maybe a Denny’s by an interstate, all of this is set-up in advance, the culmination of my life’s work. Guy Fieri shows up, he’s in his 90’s at this point, skin cancer has ravaged his body from all those years of riding around in that convertible Camaro, nobody ever told him about sunscreen, he has male pattern baldness, he’s still trying to keep the bleach blonde spikes goin on the side of his old man head though. My body is delivered in the back of a U-Haul. I am brought out laid onto a table. My closest friends gathered around me like a group of new fraternity pledges about to circle jerk onto a bran-muffin. (It’s not gay you just have to prove how committed you are to the frat) Everyone pulls out there favorite BBQ rubs and some mustard, they just start rubbing my body down. Guy Fieri is looking over everyone’s shoulders, testing there rubs out asking about the ingredients, but everyone is doing that dumb thing where they only tell him a few things. There’s always one secret ingredient they won’t tell him, like anyone gives a shit about your stupid secret family rub.

They wrap me up in saran wrap and throw me in an industrial refrigerator overnight because that’s how real BBQ is done, marinating overnight. You gotta learn how to do it (to participate everyone will have to take a bbq class at their local community center, whose kidding who no one takes classes anymore, just watch a fuckin YouTube video.)

Next day, smoker is prepped and ready holding at a perfect 225 degrees, peach wood only, none of that faggy pecan wood. I am placed onto the smoker, the lid is closed, now everyone has to sit down for the next 12 to 14 hours and watch all of my favorite movies even if they don’t like them. These will include Punch Drunk Love, Fever Pitch (Arguably Jimmy Fallons best work), and Big Mommas House 2.

I am brought out served with all the fixin’s, everyone is sobbing telling stories about me not admitting how uncomfortable they are with the fact that I taste fuckin delicious. Perfectly marbled like a top choice ribeye. Guy’s got the camera going, he gets the first bite. His reaction shocks the crowd, when he orders his restaurant managers to start serving human ass cheek. Everyone digs in, and I am devoured the same way a watermelon gets devoured by a family of Mexicans at the beach.

My very last request, everyone who ate me the very first shit after the meal has to be photographed and posted on Instagram #R.I.PALDO.

Submitted June 01, 2016 at 04:12AM by AldoRaine23 http://ift.tt/1Phl9lX Jokes