Other than becoming the first billion dollar lotto winner, my bucket-list is empty. I’ve already jumped in a pool fully clothed, made soap, worked a potter’s wheel and been lost in the smoke at 6,000 feet over Donner Pass in a small airplane. (Donner is 7,000 feet high). I’ve milked a cow, sheared a sheep, held a Koala bear, extracted honey from a mad beehive, got stranded in a dust storm and been audited by the IRS. I don’t want to do any of those things EVER again.
I’ve been to a World Series game but have no desire to sleep in a primitive yurt. I’ve already slept on the floor of a $9.99 per night motel room because the mattress was full of five generations of bed bugs. The day I shell out $500 for a room at a resort is the day I should be sent to the HaHa House. I’ve no desire to send a message in a bottle that’s never going to get to the intended recipient. If I wanted to do that there’s always the Post Office.
I already know how to juggle and have no intention of going back to school to learn how to ride a unicycle, drive a sailboat, learn to belly dance, or do ice carvings. I’ve already stomped grapes but have no interest in being in a paintball fight. If I wanted to be covered in paint from head to tail I’d paint our bathroom.
I don’t want to attend a NASCAR race, be hypnotized, chase a tornado, drive an Indy car, bathe an elephant, get a tattoo, meet Oprah or go to the opera. (Although I would like to see Elvis again.) Don’t buy me tickets to a ballet, I’ve already seen a bunch of men in slippers at Grandpa’s resthome. I don’t want to be on Jeopardy or the Ellen Generes show, or drive a Zamboni. (I hate hockey.) I’ve no desire to learn how to pole dance, yodel or wear a sumo wrestling outfit. I’ll never swim with salmon, sharks, dolphins or the pigs in Bahama. I already came close to drowning in a tsunami when I was swimming in the pool at a Day’s Inn in Sacramento and a Weight Watchers group started doing cannon balls off the diving board.
I have no desire to climb a tall mountain, do a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, ride a zip line, go on safari, wrestle an alligator or kiss a seal lion. I’ve not wanted to go fishing for marlin ever since I discovered that sea-faring boats don’t come back to port just because one person is green at the gills and puking his guts out.
I’ve never had the desire to wear fake eyelashes, be fit for a corset, wear lipstick or walk in high heels. I don’t want a bikini wax or a cleanse. A colonoscopy was bad enough! I don’t want to see a play on Broadway, smoke a cigar, learn a new language or go to a foreign city where they don’t speak English. Like Miami, for instance. I’ve already put change in someone else’s expired parking meter. (Not exactly on purpose.)
I really don’t want to ride a bull because I never made the buzzer on the 25 cent horse out in front of the grocery store. I’ll not be jumping out of an airplane any time soon either. Come to think of it, I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ve already visited all 50 states, been to Four Corners, seen the Northern Lights and been frisked at nearly every major American airport. My wife and I flew INTO the Grand Canyon. (She’ll never forgive me.) I wouldn’t mind sunbathing in a Speedo on the topless French Riviera but French tourist authorities have asked me not to.
I don’t want to eat lamb’s brain, pig’s feet, horse roast or dog steaks. If it gets so bad we have to start eating the pets someone please shoot me. No escargot, Foie gras, dim sum, fugu or sashimi for me-me because I never eat anything I can’t pronounce. I already hold a world record for eating the most cherries and my Grandma spent the last years of her life cleaning up the mess.
On second thought, there is something I wouldn’t mind doing: dying at 100 while asleep and dreaming of those babes on the French Riviera.
