Two Tears in a Bucket: It's My Masonic Apron's Motherfuckit List

Everybody's been going on and on about "Bucket Lists" since that moronic movie starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson came out in 2007. I don't think anybody actually saw the film, but enough advertising dollars were spent trying to market it that the term at least became popularized and now everybody wants to know what's on your "Bucket List."

At least, people think everybody wants to know.

I think most of you know me well enough to know by now that I don't give a sparrow's fart about what's on your Bucket List. You want to see the Taj Mahal before you expire? Great. Want to eat strawberries out your boo's asshole before you meet your maker? Um, you rock on with that. Want to skywrite, "Surrender, Captain Morgan" while doing loop-dee-loops in a biplane before you die, probably in the three-and-a-half seconds before you die? That's nice, dear. I support you. From a comfortable distance.

I've read a lot of 20somethings' Bucket Lists, and I have to tell you, they really span the spectrum from the predictable to the outlandish to the moderately touching to the formulaic.

"I want to buy an around-the-world plane ticket & travel for a year."

"I want to publish a novel."

"I want to have children."

"I want to pull off a heel-clicker on a dirt bike."

What?

"I want to host a fabulous dinner party."

"I want to see a Broadway show."

"I want to send myself flowers."

"I want to bungee jump/skydive/parasail/extreme spelunk, etc..."

It's kind of a strange feeling, reading the Bucket Lists of 20somethings because, statistically, they have fuck all of a long time to pull all of this stuff off, and some of it isn't very hard to do. Like sending yourself flowers. I mean, if you can get over the embarrassment of calling FTD Florists and giving the same exact bill-to and send-to information, you've pretty much got that one nailed.

I wonder sometimes how many people actually achieve all or any or one of the items on their Bucket Lists. I guess, if you aim low your chances are better. I have a special place in my heart for underachievers and, if this blog is something you heartily enjoy, then you probably are one.

God, I love you, you hopeless slackass. Keep resisting the urge to get some work done.

It is with a modest degree of hesitation that I give you My Masonic Apron's Two Tears in a Bucket, Motherfuckit List:

Before I die of a premature heart attack brought on by chronic anxiety and poor coping skills, I want to:

* kick a Republican in the testicles-- preferably on live television, but I'll settle for a dark alley

* eat dinner at a very expensive, posh restaurant, and right before it's time to leave, staple the tablecloth, napkins, and the tip to the table

* defecate in my 2nd grade teacher's mailbox

* show up at my parent's house on my mother's birthday dressed as a clown

* see a professional production of "Hamlet" and, when Ophelia dies, stand up and scream, "Oh, SNAPS! No you di'int, bitches!"

* put Milli Vanilli in the stocks and publicly humiliate them as punishment for stealing away the innocence of the late 1980s and early 1990s

* drive my car into a house-- it's the only way an ordinary guy can get his ass on the news these days

* join the Army. And then immediately proposition the recruiting officer for oral sex

* enter a supermarket dressed as a police officer, go to the fresh seafood area, pull a lobster out of the tank, wrestle it to the ground and place it under arrest

* blog-- all the way to the end. And, you know what? I might just be fucking crazy enough to do it.