John Crisafulli, 50, has finally kicked the bucket—along with his once-impressive sexual vitality and a frugality that would put Ebenezer Scrooge to shame. A pharmacist by trade, John was known not only for his ability to dispense medications but also for his relentless ability to dispense unsolicited advice on how to save a buck. Whether it was diluting his shampoo to “make it last longer” or claiming that he could “totally fix that” with duct tape, John’s thriftiness was legendary. And if you ever saw him pull up in one of his used luxury vehicles, you’d know his commitment to “getting a deal” ran deep, even if the car broke down five miles later.

John’s romantic heyday, though he swore it lasted longer than most would believe, came to an official end around the same time he pulled a muscle lifting a bag of fertilizer. John left  behind a hefty supply of Viagra that did the heavy lifting during his final years. While John’s sexual vitality once burned brightly (in his own mind, at least), by the time his midlife crisis hit, it was more a flickering candle, kept alive by modern medicine and some very optimistic prescriptions.

His flirtatious winks became more of an involuntary twitch, and his once-proud “smoldering looks” turned into long, confused stares—mostly because he forgot where he left his keys. When not juggling his memory lapses and love of medications, John poured his energy into woodworking (and by “energy,” we mean sporadic bursts of enthusiasm followed by long naps). His garage soon filled with a collection of wobbly shelves and lopsided tables, each a testament to his DIY spirit, if not his actual skill.

Despite his fading prowess, John always believed that a used Mercedes or BMW could somehow restore his youth—much like a refillable prescription. His proudest moments were driving those “luxury” cars off the lot, even though they barely made it home without a visit to the mechanic. His motto: “Why buy new when you can save money and fix it yourself?”—a motto that caused more than one argument when his family suggested maybe not fixing the dishwasher with wooden dowels.

John’s other great love, of course, was torturing his family with endless dad jokes, usually tied to his pharmacist profession. “Why do pharmacists have such good stock advice? We know how to compound interest!” was a particular favorite, although no one ever laughed. His children, though scarred by years of these jokes, will somehow miss the relentless stream of puns that followed him to the grave.

In the end, John leaves behind a legacy of frugality, half-finished woodworking projects, a used car with more miles on it than his dad jokes, and a family who will always remember his insistence that “money saved is money earned.” Though his charm and sexual vitality may have left the building years ago, his ability to pinch a penny and crack a bad joke never did.

In lieu of flowers, his family suggests you buy something on sale, use a coupon, and tell the worst dad joke you can think of in his memory.