I, Adam Carolla, being of beaten-down mind, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament. I revoke all wills and addendums previously made by me. (You guys never did listen, anyway.) I appoint the rest of the world’s unappreciated dads as Personal Representatives to administer this Will. I bequeath to them the right to crack a couple cold ones in the garage after working their asses off all week and ask that they be permitted to watch all the porn they like and not have to change diapers and get dragged to every preschool “graduation” and PTA meeting. To my wife, I leave a safe-deposit box, the sole content of which is a note reading “Get a job. I’m dead,” and my best wishes on trying to keep up with the unending demands of our houses, cars, dog, and kids. I devise, bequeath, and give my kids this book, Daddy, Stop Talking. Since you guys were the death of me, I leave you these pages of wisdom. But no cash, cars, or property. You’ve got to earn those. On that note, I further demand that the following message be placed on the marker of my grave: “You’re All on Your Own Now. Enjoy.”