When someone says you have two weeks to live, there are many things you do. You hug your loved ones. You eat a lot of ice cream and candy bars. You play drinking games until six in the morning on weekdays. You max out all your credit cards on stupid crap like Nerf guns and boxes of unopened 1986 Donruss baseball card packs. You remove all the pornography from your computer, because man, that’s a lot of pornography.
You lie down in a field full of wheat, just to see what it feels like. You buy a cream pie and then smash your own face in it, just to see if it’s as funny as you’ve heard. You spend a considerably larger percentage of your time at water parks. You start learning to play the guitar, realize how difficult it is, and instead just play a few crappy riffs and then smash it against the ground like a rock star. You take a handful of money, stuff it in an envelope, and then mail it to a random person in the White Pages who has a funny-sounding name.
Paul Ryan is a funny sounding name. Shut up. It is.
I should note that I don’t have two weeks to live. In fact, I’m perfectly healthy and probably have a good 40 to 60 years to live. Which, for some of you who don’t like this column very much, may seem like an unbearable prison sentence from which you may never escape. But sometimes when life gets a little dull, it’s fun to imagine you only have two weeks left to live, and do some of those things anyway.
Maybe you never got the chance to egg someone’s house as a kid. If you only had two weeks left, wouldn’t you? Perhaps you’ve always wanted to crash a stranger’s wedding while wearing an Easter bunny costume. Exactly how long do you plan to wait? Maybe you’ve never seen Japanese anime cartoons, and are curious as to what an octopus fornicating with a schoolgirl would look like. C’mon, man. It’s like three clicks from the main Yahoo homepage. Just do it.
Perhaps you’ve never drank a liter of cognac and then publicly urinated in downtown Duluth. I know there’s only three or four of you in the entire Northland who haven’t, so what’s the holdup? As one of the many who have drank a liter of cognac and then publicly urinated in downtown Duluth – and downtown Superior as well – I can tell you that it’s definitely a rush of adrenaline. It makes you feel like Sid Vicious, or Wilford Brimley when he’s had too much lemonade and the senior shuttle bus is 10 minutes late to pick him up.
One of the greatest things about this world is even if you aren’t capable of doing bad things like egging someone’s house, there are always friendlier alternatives. For instance, as kids my friends and I sometimes would fill water balloons with laundry detergent and throw them at someone’s house. It leaves a hilarious blue splatter all over their front door, but unlike eggs, it’s easy to clean off with a hose. Also unlike eggs, laundry detergent smells delicious.
Gasoline also smells delicious, but that’s another story. And before you add that little gem of information to your theory of why I’m a 30-year-old deadbeat who’s still stuck at a crappy alt-weekly paper, I’ll note that I have never actually consumed or huffed gasoline. Or paint chips. Or skunk urine. All those things are simply rumors.
Anyway, if I’ve learned anything from seeing the movie “Bucket List” – other than that I should really read reviews before going to see a film – it’s that you’re never too mature to do anything. If you’re a lonely 80-year-old woman who has never been with a male prostitute, you should go for it. You should also keep in mind that this male prostitute will probably be gayer than a TV weatherman, but learning is the fun part of trying new things.
You’re also never too exciting to think up new things to add to your “two weeks left to live” list. Goals on my current list include cursing live on a local TV newscast, throwing up on the table at a Denny’s restaurant and leaving without cleaning it up, and getting former Vikings running back Darrin Nelson to personally apologize to me for dropping that touchdown pass at the end of the 1987 NFC Championship Game.
I even have a secondary list, which includes less scandalous goals like catching a foul ball at a baseball game, painting a comically awful picture of my parents and then forcing them to display it in their home for a full year, and writing one humor column that doesn’t include a reference to skunk urine.
Make your own list and start by completing the easiest item, reader. Feel free to steal as many of my ideas as you like, especially the one about throwing water balloons full of laundry detergent at people’s houses. Just please refrain from name-dropping when you’re telling the police why you did it.