Yesterday my son told me he wanted to hasten my death in order to sooner receive his (meager) inheritance.
He chortled, "I'll make it look like a suicide. But not just any suicide. A gay, angst-ridden suicide, with gay love letters strewn around your body."
He then thought better of it. "No, I'll make it look as if you died of autoerotic asphyxiation while jerking off to gay porn. I'll pull your pants down and put some gay porn near your body."
When he finally stopped laughing, he concluded, "David Carradine's death is going to look dignified by comparison."
I never once spoke to my father that way.