Knowing his time was almost up, a notoriously cynical millionaire summoned his attorney to his bedside to hastily draft his very first last will and testament.
“I want twenty-five percent of my cash to go to charity,” the old man rasped. “I’ve taken a lot from this world; it’s time to give a little back.”
“Exceedingly noble, sir,” the lawyer noted, scribbling furiously.
“Another twenty-five percent goes to my son. The lazy leech has been waiting for my heart to stop for years anyway.”
“Understood. And the remaining fifty percent?” the lawyer asked.
“That goes entirely to my wife,” the millionaire smirked, “but on one strict condition: she must remarry immediately after my funeral.”
The lawyer paused, thoroughly baffled by the bizarre clause. “I can certainly write that in, sir… but if you don’t mind me asking, why on earth do you care if she remarries?”
The dying man flashed a wicked, triumphant grin and whispered:
“Because I want to ensure that at least one man genuinely regrets my death.”
