For some reason, people our age (I'm assuming you're 29 or whatever) nowadays are awfully into making Bucket Lists. I made one, too-- sort of. I'm not going to hyperlink to it, because, really, why?
To me, it's funny to think about Bucket Lists and the people who make them. You might think that the people who would make Bucket Lists would be obsessed with death-- but they're not. Most twentysomethings aren't obsessed with death-- they're obsessed with Facebook, causes, boobies and blogging.
Oh, and Starbucks. 20somethings are all over Starbucks's hot, frappy jaun.
I like Starbucks, but I am obsessed with death. I read about it all the time. On Friday night, my wife and I went on a hot date to Barnes and Noble to try to spend a $25.00 giftcard that we've had since Hanukkah, and we couldn't do it. She was holed up in a corner reading the latest "Post Secret" book. I was reading a book about capital punishment.
Well, that's me. A side note about executions-- how about that fucker in Utah who was given a choice about the method of execution he'd prefer and answered, "I would like the firing squad, please," like he was ordering Chinese take-out or a slider from White Castle. Unbefuckinglievable.
Anyway, I'm the kind of guy who should be making his Bucket List because, every time I have to clear my throat more than once in a fifteen minute span, I'm convinced I'm going to die. My allergist didn't help when, earlier in the week, he reported that my pulmonary functions were down from my last visit, five months ago, when they were down from the visit before that.
"But I am still breathing, right?" I asked.
"I think so," he said, clinically crossing his arms in front of his chest and furrowing his brow.
"Oh, good."
But, seriously, I am dying.
That said, I have little desire to seriously compose a Bucket List. Sure, there are things I want to do before I die-- like an Indian girl-- but we all know I'm not going to do an Indian girl, or seriously compose a Bucket List-- because I'm married, and I rarely seriously compose anything.
One thing I would like to devote a modicum of attention to, however, is an Un-Bucket List. You know, a list of things I don't want to do/experience before I die. Seems more practical, doesn't it, and, because I am a negative little nelly, it would make more sense coming from someone like me.
So, without further horse-shavings, here's My Masonic Apron's Un-Bucket List:
Before I die, I don't want to...
* ... be inducted into the Israeli Army.
When I was seventeen, my father got this great idea that he was going to take my sister and me on a trip to Israel, to finally see where my father was born and lost his virginity, and performed that selfsame service for any number of attractive, raven-haired sabras. Because, underneath that Cro-Magnon exterior, he's actually a pretty big straight-edge, he called the Israeli Consulate to arrange the trip. The consulate officer to whom he spoke informed him that, if he attempted to travel to Israel with us that I would be met at the airport in Israel by military police officers and I would, at that time, either a.) be inducted into the Israeli Army or b.) be placed under arrest.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" my father politely inquired.
"In the eyes of Israel, your son is an Israeli citizen-- he is your son, and he must therefore serve in the army if he sets foot onto Israeli soil."
My father cancelled the trip.
* ... be anally violated.
I think this one pretty much speaks for itself, but I'll elaborate because, as my mother says, I don't know when to stop. Call me a homophobe or a homophone or whatever you want, but I think that being anally violated would really hurt. And I want to be hurt as little as possible, because getting hurt, well, hurts. I'm a very svelte person, and my rear door is quite pert. Sticking anything other than a Cross pen up there would probably just about kill me.
*... do math homework with my children.
This will almost certainly result in, at the very least, bloodshed. When my father and I used to do my math homework at the dining room table, he would shake his head in despair, and I would collapse in a pile of tears. These were not happy times. They say we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of our parents, but the only mistake my father made was not getting me a tutor. I will not make that mistake.
*... be kissed on the mouth by an elderly woman.
I'm trying to think of a circumstance by which this one would happen, and I kind of can't think of one. That's probably a good thing, right? I mean, sure, one day my wife will be an elderly woman, and, hopefully, she'll still want to kiss me on the mouth. But I'll be old then, so it'll be okay. My mouth will resemble two pieces of dried mango, so what right will I have to be picky?
*... share a motel room with a Civil War re-enactor.
Again, difficult to imagine a situation where this particular occurance would become a reality. If I were a character in an eighties comedy, though, it might happen, and I think that would be disturbing. Do Civil War re-enactors wear period underwear?
I mean-- see? We regular people weren't meant to know these things. Or see them.
*... be in a room alone with Joan Rivers.
I mean, there's no telling what she might do to me. As we've discussed previously-- my asshole is very, very small.
*... go to any event called a "reunion."
This includes, obviously, high school and college "reunions." It also includes awkward "reunion" concerts and tours and interviews of washed-up, coked-out has-beens who haven't talked to each other in 25 years or more and are now having a "reunion" because they ran out of "money."
*... have my wisdom teeth out.
One came out already, one's in completely, and two are bone-impacted. I am petrified that I will die during the surgery, just like my friend did in high school. She died when she was seventeen. I was sixteen. When I went to her funeral, I said I was sorry to her mother, and I introduced myself because I assumed she didn't know me. She burst into tears and held me tightly as she cried out, "I know who you are! You're Captain Hook!"
I played Captain Hook when I was twelve years old. Her daughter was an Indian. And I doubt she ever got to make a Bucket List.
Posts
Lauren Soloy’s The Newest Gnome: A Quiet Adventure
11 months ago
