Leave it to my loathsome, wastrel offspring, J. Phineas, to screw up once more! Yesterday morning, I woke up and everything was pitch black. Not an unusual circumstance, as the curtains are drawn in my bedchamber at all times. But the air felt awfully close, and when I drew my hand to my throat it hit a hard, wooden surface just inches above my head. I had been buried alive yet again! That dimwitted physician of mine pronounced me dead, and my dunderheaded son believed it! Will he never learn?
In the last 50 years, I have been buried five times. I was awake during three of them and had the presence of mind to lie quietly in the coffin and listen to my eulogies. At the first one, President Truman spoke, calling me a rotten old bastard from whose iron shackles the American people had finally been freed. You should have seen Truman's face when I emerged, like Lazarus, from my sarcophagus! I had that lousy hypocrite flogged.
At the fourth funeral, I didn't wake up until the coffin had been lowered into the ground. My hound, Tiberius, dug me up. He tore off my left clavicle, but thankfully, my servants were able to rescue me. Dear, loyal Tiberius!
Wisely, after that fourth burial, I had an electric buzzer installed in my coffin, with a long cord subterreaneously connected to the servants' hall. When I woke up yesterday morning, I rang it furiously, to be sure.
Upon my latest return from the grave, there were tears in the eyes of many at the Zweibel estate. My worthless son, J. Phineas, however, had wasted no time in my absence. There he was at the great oak desk in my study, smoking my cigars, guzzling my brandy and deciding how to spend my riches!
Upon seeing me enter the room, the saphead showered me with tears and hugs, and feigned great joy at my apparent resurrection from the dead. He's made this display before. Little does he know, however, that I have since amended my will. When I do finally escape this mortal coil, I am bequeathing my estate to that woman with the enormous mammaries.