Attention friends and family, when I die: A.) Don’t turn on my laptop, just throw it away. It has a virus. A super bad one. Definitely don’t look at the browser history, there’s some things that just can’t be explained, and don’t open the shortcut icon labeled “Lemon Party,” it is a party, but has nothing to do with lemons, B.) There’s a box in my closet with the words “CHARITY RECEIPTS” on it, please don’t open it because there’s actually no receipts from my goodwill, but rather flash drives with top secret information on them mostly from RedTube, and C.) Create an obituary for me that’s as epic as the one that the family of Chris Connors gave to him, yes, I understand that you’ll have to fabricate everything, but it’s my dying wish so just fucking do it.
The family of Chris Connors wrote one of, it not the greatest obituary of all-time titled “Irishman Dies from Stubbornness, Whiskey.” The 67-year-old died last Friday after fighting ALS and stage 4 pancreatic cancer. His daughter Caitlin and her cousin, Liz Connors, wrote the extraordinary death announcement for the “ladies man, game slayer,” and skinny Irish Golden Gloves boxer from Quincy, Massachusetts.
Chris Connors died, at age 67, after trying to box his bikini-clad hospice nurse just moments earlier. Outlaw Connors told his last inappropriate joke on Friday, December 9, 2016, that which cannot be printed here. Anyone else would have gone quietly into the night, but Connors was stark naked drinking Veuve in a house full of friends and family as Al Green played from the speakers. The way he died is just like he lived: he wrote his own rules, he fought authority and he paved his own way. And if you said he couldn’t do it, he would make sure he could.
Connors worked on Wall Street despite having zero financial background and “enjoyed cross-dressing” as well as mashed potatoes with lots of butter.
Connors also allegedly purchased and donated a search-and-rescue boat for the York, Maine, fire department after his brother died in the Sept. 11 terror attacks. In 2011, Connors biked 530 miles, going to all three sites where the planes crashed in the 9/11 attacks.
As much as people knew hanging out with him would end in a night in jail or a killer screwdriver hangover, he was the type of man that people would drive 16 hours at the drop of a dime to come see. He lived 1000 years in the 67 calendar years we had with him because he attacked life; he grabbed it by the lapels, kissed it, and swung it back onto the dance floor. At the age of 26 he planned to circumnavigate the world – instead, he ended up spending 40 hours on a life raft off the coast of Panama. In 1974, he founded the Quincy Rugby Club. In his thirties, he sustained a knife wound after saving a woman from being mugged in New York City. He didn’t slow down: at age 64, he climbed to the base camp of Mount Everest. Throughout his life, he was an accomplished hunter and birth control device tester (with some failures, notably Caitlin Connors, 33; Chris Connors, 11; and Liam Connors, 8).
One of his few regrets was eating a rotisserie hot dog from an unmemorable convenience store in the summer of 1986.
The touching obituary ends by saying, “Absolut vodka and Simply Orange companies are devastated by the loss of Connors.”
His funeral was held during happy hour, and in lieu of flowers, they asked guests to pay the open bar tab.
Before his death, he and his family started The Chris Connors Fund with the fire department to educate children and families about water safety. You can donate here if you’d like.
God bless Chris fucking Connors.