On his death bed with his closest friend, Mike, at his side, Pat, mustering all the strength he had left in his frail, spent anatomy, cracked open an eyelid to peer into the dimness searching for that loyal countenance he'd had the good fortune to know for over nine decades and wheezed out his last call, "Michael, me boy!"
Mike, startled, shook off his alarum, leaned in to place his ear next to the lips of the only living being other than his dear mother, rest her soul, that he'd ever trusted with his life, and heaved an answer (for Pat was next to deaf), "I'm here, Pat."
Patrick then wheezed his final wish, "My best and dearest friend, will be sure and pour a bottle of good old Irish whiskey over me grave when I die?"
"Aye, Pat, that I will," Mike heaved in a heartbeat. Then pondering a second beat heaved, "But...uh...would you mind at all...if I let it...trickle through me kidneys first?"