Before James Brown was famous, do you think he wished that maybe one day he’d be referred to as the Godfather of Soul – or that loved ones would fight over his money after he died?

My inner-stud hopes that chicks will fight over me someday. However, being 7/8 cynic – I don’t hope – I know for a fact that the best I’ll ever get will be some stress-inducing daughters clawing to get at my wallet for clothes, gas, movie tickets and the $30K they’ll need each year for spring break tuition (by then, actual college will be about as meaningful as free room and board at Phoenix On-line University) – and hopefully I’ll still be alive for it all.

I feel bad for James Brown. He was known as the hardest-working man in show business for decades, and it seems like all he’s got to show for it lately is a “grieving” widow who wants half his stuff. Does she miss him? Did she really love him? Were they ever even married? I don’t know those answers, nor do I care.

I do, however, care about my legacy. I worry about how I’ll be remembered, and what I’ll leave behind. These days it seems scary to even bequeath a dime, because it might wreck a lifetime’s worth of hard-fought, priceless effort.

Would it be pleasant to witness one or more of your kids being possessed by the devil? Imagine, you’re tossing holy water and yelling the “power of Christ compels you!” while they’re scurrying around in the crab-walk position on the ceiling above you – it’s not pretty. Neither are family disputes over last will and testaments.