So how do you want to go?
I would prefer to suffer a massive coronary event upon reaching a staggering climax whilst penetrating my wife in a marriage way at a very ripe old age.
Any deathbed confessions?
Not yet, but I do have big plans for smuggling some decent weed into Oklahoma. Shhh.
Are you going to heaven or hell?
I don’t believe in those particular fictions, so I guess neither. I hope to come back as a redwood tree in Northern California, or perhaps a badger in Wisconsin with a ready supply of cheese and sausage.
What’s your last meal?
One beef steer, lightly seared, washed down with a flagon of Lagavulin 16. For dessert, one pecan pie, two racks of Texas ribs, one blueberry pie, three pounds of Franklin brisket, and one key lime pie, with another flagon of Lagavulin 16.
What have you spent the most money on in your life?
Meat and tools.
Who would win in a fight to the death, Ron Swanson or your 22 Jump Street character, Deputy Chief Hardy?
I can’t imagine any man defeating Ron Swanson in mortal combat. Deputy Chief Hardy has been at the desk far too long; maybe he’d defeat Swanson in a contest of weakness, perhaps celery eating.
Hardy sends Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum to college. Are there any moments from your own college days you would like to reenact before you pass?
It wouldn’t hurt to lie once more in the gentle caress of the Sangamon River, hallucinating the leaves and birdsong into the most delightful mind-treacle.
You’re known as a woodworking aficionado. Will you build your own casket?
In a manner of speaking, for I shall construct my own elvish watercraft in which I’ll undergo a magnificent Viking funeral. My loved ones and friends will frolic around a ceremonial pyre on an oceanfront cliff, making music and love and merry as my death ship sails toward the setting sun. As it nears the extreme range of a long bow, Chris Pratt will light a large flaming arrow from the pyre, nock the arrow to his string, draw the bow taut with a mighty heave, then loose it in a long, majestic arc of fire and smoke until, impossibly, its tooth is ensnared, dartlike, in the main sail of my barque, immolating the entire boat in a frenzy of roaring conflagration until the funerary blaze descends, hissing smoke, into the welcoming arms of Mother Pacifica.
And what are people saying over that casket?
“Nice fucking shot, Chris.”
Got any last words?
Love one another, make something with your hands, and exalt the farmer.