Author Archives: Paul Steven Stone

The Last Will And New Testament Of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr.

I, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., being of sound mind and failing health in my 73rd year do hereby set down in words this final and irrefutable disposal of all my worldly goods.

No matter what anyone may say to the contrary, this document represents my true wishes, written without undue influence except perhaps by the uncomfortably close and ever-looming shadow of my Maker. May He prove to be the first honest and faithful authority I encounter in a lifetime of lonely, self-reliant struggle. And may He understand that what transpired in my lifetime, much of which may appear of questionable humanitarian purpose, was merely a matter of good business practice and never anything personal.

Oh, damn . . . ! No sooner do I write those words than a soft, unfamiliar voice (could it be my conscience after all these years?) whispers, “Is that entirely true, Henry? Good business practice and never anything personal?”

What right does a conscience have to speak to me now–answer me that–after a lifetime spent in silence?

I know what’s wrong, and why I suffer myself to sit up in my sick bed scribbling to replace a will previously drawn and re-drawn half a dozen times. This very morning, awaking from a dream in which I’d been dragging dead weights across the floor of the Boston Stock Exchange, I looked over at my nightstand to find amidst the panoply of pills and potions a thin, black vinyl-covered copy of The New Testament. Left, no doubt, by an overzealous nurse or one of you, my dear children, desperate for a larger share of my appreciation and, ultimately, my fortune.

Well, no complaints there. That’s the way I brought you up and I have no right to complain if you prove apt pupils in the end. I suppose I should even be proud, but I raised you so damn well in my own image I can’t stand the sight of you.

And now all of you—my five progeny, my attorneys, my associates, even my ex-wives—will laugh, and with good reason, to hear that Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. woke up on his death bed to find the New Testament staring at him like a snake placed in his path by an ironic deity. Funnier still, that when I angrily picked it up to fling across the room, my eye—still sharp as ever–was caught by a saying from the text that went right to my heart and stayed my hand from its angry gesture.

And for those critics who implied otherwise, I hereby affirm that I, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., did actually have a heart. Not my fault if it was so small most people naturally overlooked it.

But I digress, and there is little time for diversions. I feel the shadows closing in and can barely write as my fingers struggle to grip the pen.

The words that caught my eye, from the Gospel of Luke, caused something magical, or maybe I should say mystical, to happen. In an instant, I saw that this fragile life to which I was clinging was only one of many lives my spirit had taken on. And when the time soon came for me to die, that same spirit would not vaporize into nothingness but rather take on a shiny new body and a lifetime of yet-to-be-sampled experiences.

Now laugh if you want, but the funniest part is still to come, because I also saw that everything I did in this incarnation would have consequences in the next. And, as most of you know better than I, mine was a life spent far from the fields of brotherly love and higher ideals.

And so, if you look below you’ll find a long list of charities to which I bequeath my entire fortune down to the last penny, yacht and offshore tax shelter.

As for you, my children, I leave the wisdom garnered in these last fateful moments of my existence. And my apologies for abandoning your needs to once again serve my own selfish purposes.

But there’s a lesson in this worth more than the $350 million dollars you almost inherited. And that is, to make sure you never go anywhere in life, or death, without adequate insurance. I knew I had almost failed to provide such insurance for myself—call it travel insurance–when I read those fateful words from Jesus, “Give, and it shall be given unto you . . .”

As a tired old man completing his last piece of business in this lifetime, I just wish Jesus had given me more detailed instructions.

The In-Transit Report of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr.


TO: The Boss
FROM: The In-Transit Steering Committee
DECEASED IN-TRANSIT: Henry J. Worthmore, Jr., age 73
OCCUPATION: Millionaire Attorney
DISPOSITION: See recommendations below

The In-Transit Steering Committee would like to thank The Divine Arranger for sending us Mr. Worthmore. As Your Most Austere Presence knows, we’ve had a rather difficult few months of late, what with all the disasters and wars taking place around the planet. It’s been rare, then, that we’ve had the pleasure to review a life as amply filled with potential but as sadly devoid of redeeming qualities as Mr. Worthmore’s.

To add to our enjoyment, this was a life where the principal player couldn’t have been more transparent in pursuing his self interest than if he had worn subtitles across his chest explaining his motives.

Sister Margaretha, who takes great rewards from small blessings, was highly voluble about Mr. Worthmore’s many acts of ‘faux charity,’ as she likes to call them. Like all Investigating Angels, the good Sister can plug into anything said, thought or fantasized by the subject when he was alive. In going over his many acts of charity, and listening to Mr. Worthmore’s inner dialogue as he made each gift, Sister Margaretha was unable to find a single instance of gift-giving where Mr. Worthmore didn’t prove to be the ultimate beneficiary.

Even down to his Christmas presents!

If The Ultimate Deity would press button 44Q below, He will see a sampling of Mr. Worthmore’s sorrowful gift-giving episodes. Watch closely as he gives Christmas presents to each of his five children; and listen to him measuring in his mind exactly what he expects in return.

In going over Mr. Worthmore’s HOG Rating, we saw the subject had consumed far more than his fair share of the planet’s resources. His fleet of cars, his 149 foot yacht, his homes and mansions of unnecessary magnitude–usually housing nothing more than his vaunted ego–were all held in orbit by the pull of an insatiable appetite. Even when providing gainful employ to servants and employees, Mr. Worthmore inevitably sucked more essence from them than they could ever take from him.

Brother Barnabus took particular exception to the subject’s repeated use of the phrase “It’s just business. Nothing personal.” According to our angelic colleague, the phrase became a sort of mantra for Mr. Worthmore and was used repeatedly to explain and excuse a wide sweep of aggressive, anti-social behavior. Again, if The Singular Divinity would press button 23D below, He will experience Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. coveting literally anything of notable attraction or value that he didn’t already own. You’ll see him blithely step over the broken dreams of family members, competitors and innocent bystanders to gain himself even the most pathetic of advantages. Each time trumpeting “It’s just business. Nothing personal” as his own moral ‘get out of jail free’ card. You’ll discover that nothing but his widely anticipated demise could ever stop Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. from pursuing and acquiring more. And more. And ever more.

Nor was any person or institution safe from his acquisitive nature, not even Your Church. If Your Most Exalted Presence would press button 65D, You will join Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. on a Sunday morning in St. Patricia’s. The segment opens as he is removing $12 change for the $10 bill he has just placed in the offering basket. We might link his incredible behavior to the fact he thought he wasn’t being observed, but in truth his assets had dropped precipitously in recent days—to less than $225 million—and he was merely searching for new ways to stabilize his income.

SUMMATION: Born to money, child of privilege and class, member of the bar, Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. unfortunately squandered all opportunities for growth, brotherhood and the pursuit of truth offered to him in his lifetime. Ill-disposed to use his considerable assets or high social standing for the good of others, he became a human sucking-and-eating machine, amassing a great fortune, expensive holdings and a life devoid of friends or congeniality. His funeral drew a large crowd, though relief and celebration were more in evidence than mourning.

RECOMMENDATIONS: We recommend the spirit of Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. be given another body and sent back to earth, only this time as a humble creature exploited by people who are exact replicas of his former self. We also recommend that throughout his new life he be continually tormented by: doors that stick, neighborhood bullies, mistakes on his credit rating, incorrect assembly instructions, a lack of rhythm, IRS audits and a recurring skin rash. Perhaps crooked teeth, as well . . . though these days that can be too easily corrected.

Your August Oneness can see it would be unthinkable for us to recommend Henry J. Worthmore, Jr. be moved higher up on his PEL (Personal Evolution Ladder). He has earned none of our respect or admiration and, really, very little of Your Mercy.

And that’s without going into his years as a Massachusetts politician.

BACK IN THE U.S. OF A.


Flew in from My Daddy’s Beach, to the RNC
Didn’t get to bed last night
Counting money the poor won’t see
Man, I had a first class flight
I’m back in the U.S. of A.
You don’t know how lucky you are, boy
Back in the U.S. of A!

Been away so long they hardly knew my face
Gee, it’s good to be back home
Tipped them 20 dollars just to carry my case
Mama, send my money home
I’m back in the U.S. of A.
You don’t know how needy they are, boy
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S. of A.

Well the tax loopholes really knock me out
They leave the rest behind
And Texas moguls make me sing and shout
Their flim-flam-doodles always on my my my my my my my my my mind

Well the hungry folks really knock me out
Make me leave my cares behind
Those starving kids make me sing and shout
That bread line always on my my my my my my my my my mind

Oh, let me share your billions, brother
Before I start to  pout,
Take me to my accountant’s farm
Let your lobbyists twist and shout
To keep my millions warm
I’m back in the U.S. of A.
Hey, you don’t know how needy they are, boy
Back in the U.S. of A.
Just let me count my money
I’m back in the U.S. of A.
You don’t know how greedy you are, boys
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S.
Back in the U.S. of A.

ROMNEY TAKES HOSTAGE IN BID TO GRAB NOMINATION


Call it bravado, an innovative political maneuver, or an outright felony, but whatever you call it, Mitt Romney has taken a decisive step towards grabbing the Republican nomination for president.

“It all happened so suddenly,” cried Marie Fayreweather in describing the former Massachusetts Governor’s dramatic hostage-taking of her 6-month-old son, Bailey. “One moment I told Mr. Romney that as much as I admired his good looks and vast riches, I still intended to vote for Rick Santorum, the next moment he cried, ‘Not on my watch you won’t!’ and grabbed my little Bailey.

“Wait a second,” I pleaded, “Bailey is too young to vote, and besides I’m afraid he wouldn’t like traveling on top of your family station wagon.”

“Never fear,” Mitt rattled back, “Seamus never shares his dog carrier with anyone. And besides, if you won’t vote for me I’ll hold onto Bailey until he’s old enough to vote for me himself.”

Romney’s campaign later issued a statement denying that the candidate had wrested the child from his unwilling mother, but that Bailey had clearly indicated a preference for the moderate-but-severely-conservative Republican candidate. And that Mr. Romney intended to hold onto the ‘little tykester’ as he’s already called until Romney wins the Illinois Republican primary or the hunting season begins, whichever comes first.

Romney, as he’s often stated, is a gun-loving member of the NRA who has killed so many rabbits that the town of Belmont, where the governor once lived, had to restock the town forest on a yearly basis.

The Romney campaign’s newest political slogan, “Vote Romney if you ever want to see Bailey in daycare again!” is already picking up momentum and voter support. Without a doubt, a majority of undecided Republican voters find it more convincing than Romney’s earlier tagline, “I made $250 million off the sweat of others, imagine what I can do for our country.”

It’s too early to tell what long-range effects the hostage-taking might have on the primary or, eventually, the general election, but political pundits have already begun talking up Bailey as a possible Vice Presidential candidate.

So far there’s been no comment from Bailey, who hasn’t yet learned to speak.

WE ARE ALL SYRIANS!


When the cowards come for you they will come with tanks and overwhelming force. They will torture your children for daring to speak the truth. They will shoot your neighbors from rooftops as you attempt to bury your dead. They will bomb and shell your homes into rubble, then sift through the twisted steel and crumbling concrete lest anyone come out alive.

At night, when you are all alone and waiting for the cowards to break down your door you will tremble as you’ve never trembled in your life. You will look at your frightened family and realize how fragile is the world and the dreams you were foolish enough to believe in. Any hope or plans you nurtured for your children’s future will be crushed like ants beneath the bloodstained boots of these cowardly murderers.

When the cowards break down your door and rudely snatch your sons from your arms you will fight like you’ve never fought before. You will struggle against all odds to keep them alive and free. You will struggle in vain to safeguard the only treasure worth defending with your dying breath.

When the cowards kill your sons and wives and brothers you will feel more alone than you’ve ever felt before. And you will wonder how it could be that no one heard your cries for help. That no one who witnessed the brutal killing spree came to your defense. That no one had the strength or courage to stand up to the cowards and shout “Enough! Stop the killing!” You will wonder why your pleas to God and humanity fell on deaf ears. Why your cries for help brought fighting words but no actual fighters to your assistance.

When the cowards come for you they will come with tanks and overwhelming force. And they will kill with defiant impunity; raining down destruction in front of a world that can only stare in frozen disbelief. A world that sadly hasn’t learned that each death of a defenseless civilian not only strengthens the cowards but diminishes the cowardly onlookers.

Look not upon the victims of Syria, friends, lest you see yourselves. Then wait. Sooner or later the cowards will come for you.