Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Yet More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up

Imagine the curse of writing for Mr. Destructo: doomed not only to set perilously high expectations but constantly to exceed them. Such is the case with our annual event, "Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up," a litany of challenges posed to ourselves and handily dispatched by the following year.

Consider an iron resolve that can only hesitate at obstacles devised by its own will. That previous sentence describes Volkesgeistes so formidable that all the terms in it would be terrifying if they were in German. Ours is a spirit that climbs Mt. Everest not "because it is there," but "because we thought of Mt. Everest."

You're welcome.

Again, as with last year, 2012's edition involves a collaborative effort from many of our writers. General Ze'evi handled our graphics, while Mark H. and Cory H. (no relation) pitched in with fresh ideas. MLB postseason fixture JShap joins us for the first time. Mark Brendle was killed in a catastrophic bridesmaid accident.

May your 2012 be prosperous, and may your January have been horrible.

Yet More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up:
I want to live to see the day that scientists proudly announce that they have, if not outright cured, then at least alleviated the disease down to a single sclerosis.

I'm gonna graffiti pictures of nourishing bowls of soup pretty much everywhere, until soup gets to be real serious shit, street-wise.

I will outfit the beds of severe frostbite victims with magic fingers, because I'm a healer, and I'm a dick.

I want to kill the lolcats meme — not because I hate them, but because I could get pretty good by the ninth time.

I want to meet people who are persuaded by quotes like "'MARK WAHLBERG AND CONTRABAND DELIVER!' - Brot Smittward, FOX TV K-DBQ NEEDLES, CA," and kick them in the junk. Then I will hold up a sign that reads, "'YOU DON'T KNOW HOW SORRY HE IS!' - Tracy Thorne, NBC 12—NEWS ON YOUR SIDE!"

I'm going to legalize filling every Snuggie in America with lice and reclassifying all wearers of said garment as "Involuntary Flagellants."

I will create a massive pictorial database of people who have been on Law & Order and people who have also been on screen nude. Under the pictures of them doing it will be spoiler text you can mouse over to see if they did it.

I want to bring Conan back to the Tonight Show where he belongs! He got screwed! That's still a thing, right?

I'm gonna finally answer, "How Do You Talk to an Angel?" just so everybody can rest easy. Also, I'm gonna square it with said angel so Heaven makes the hands fall off anybody who records a dubstep cover of the Hill Street Blues theme.

I will install a bidet in the middle of my living room, and any time someone says something lazy or ignorant to me, I'm going to press a button that makes it spray up while I say, "Hey, wash yo ass," and a hidden audience hoots at the offender and goes "woooOOOOOOoooo."

I will alert the U.S. government to the fact that fortune cookies are basically just windows to the future, which make Chinese restaurants irreparable tears in the snacktime continuum.

I want to get fired by The Onion AV Club for not only failing to preface every piece in my critical "The Complete Series of CSI: Re-Reviewed" with five paragraphs of self-absorbed collegiate/high-school anecdotes and whining but also for closing out each piece with, "I'll give this episode an uncut 6/6 if I can order an In-N-Out Helgenberger."

There's a People's History of the United States, children's histories, women's histories, black histories and Don't Know Much About History histories. I want to write The Pornographic History of the United States. Sample article:
In-N-Out Burger was named after Warren Burger, America's horniest Chief Justice. Potter Stewart once famously said, "I can't define obscenity, but I know it when I see Sandra Day's O'face when she's giving 'Once Hugo Black You Never Go Back' a Learned Hand and Warren's gavelin' on her robe-treats dogwise."
Everyone would read it, and it can't be any more inaccurate than the stacked ratshit we let the Texas Board of Education print.

I want to run onstage at an awards show and mortify Lady Gaga by interrupting her and asking, "Do you have a penis?" And when she protests I'll just hand over some wrapped butcher paper and be all, "It's cool; I scored you one."

I will Occupy Baker Street with a string of blisteringly passionate saxophone solos.

I want to technologically topple one of those Arab regimes, whoever's left. Not with Twitter, but via Dance Dance Revolution.

I want to bring back hook-and-loop jeans. For three reasons. One, simple style. Two, urinating while drunk will automatically come fraught with an exciting sense of danger, and ladies are attracted to danger. Three, if I wanna get fucked up and scam on some Amish hotties, there's no way they can tell I'm lying when I say, "My name is CALEB POWER, son of Japheth Power. I come from some towns over, and I am packing mad game silo."

I want to turn Obama's name into a sexual euphemism for the guy who gets excluded at a gangbang.

I'm going to design a kind of special diabetic Cheeto.

I want to change the local hospital information hotlines to announce wait times for the emergency room, Godot, Guffman, My Man, The Worms, A Girl Like You, and Exhalation. Those who can't hardly wait will be able to press #, which will take them to muzak solely by Big Star, until an operator can come on the line and discuss making an appointment for full replacements of their broken outpatience.

I'm finally gonna go for it with my attractive cousin. It's not weird because we never saw each other that much growing up.

I will force the FDA and DEA to reclassify birth control pills as "Vaginotropic Drugs," so I can make serious bank by selling it to middle schoolers and telling them, "No, dude. It makes you feel exactly like you're inside a vagina. Or you are a vagina. There's mad vagina stuff going on. It's different for everybody." Also, I'm pretty sure there are some ladies out there who'd like to periodically be able to claim, "Sorry, I'm just whacked out on vaginotropics."

I want everyone in America to figure out how to kill a man with a dinosaur. My idea? Hide the dinosaur in his toilet.

I'm going to figure out how to be the bad/sad man behind blue eyes while still also being effectively ambulatory and less of an attraction to crows, because that's basically a shitload of eyes to wheel around in front of you.

I'm going to create an indie rap persona named "Mac Dre A'dee Mateo" and then rap about how I have a diseased colon and how I'm actually dead because I was murdered by a tequila salesman.

Quiero continuar "el learn-o" (?) espaƱol.

Since there are already 183 different college bowls, I want to introduce the following new bowl games:
Clement State vs. Hammacker College in the ATLEE BOWL, brought to you by Asian Socialism.
Texas vs. Arizona St. in the BORDER BOWL brought to you by the Minutemen and Sheriff Joe Arpaio.
Florida State vs. Chico State in the BRO BOWL, brought to you by the Phizer Home Rape Kit.
THE GUIDO BOWL: basically just a cluster-munitions testing range.
THE DUST BOWL: a bunch of rabbits playin' and runnin' and gambolin' and just livin' off the fat of the land.

I want to be the first person to non-fatally practice The Pile Driver: where you lock cruise control at 69 mph while receiving fellatio from a woman whose legs are going up through the sunroof and you perform oral sex on her while peering over her butt at the roadway. I've already checked, and none of the above is illegal in Nevada.

I'm gonna make housepaint either smell worse or taste better.

I want to make a classic English beef, carrot, peas, mushrooms and gravy dish served under a layer of mashed potatoes, with the twist being that it's self-cleaning if you accidentally spill some on your clothing. We'll bill it as "Frottage Pie: The Only Food That Gets Off When It Gets On You!"

I want to turn off that prick Jeopardy-playing computer without shutting down Windows first. He's not better than me. I've read books.

I'm gonna change Diddy's name to just a schwa, then play him Group X's discography and be like, "Yo, these guys are dissing you. Here, take my gun."

I want to make McAlister's sweet and unsweet teas the national tea default. The fact that you can still get iced tea in this country that looks and tastes like a tornado of black murk is unacceptable.

I'm gonna move to Syosset, NY, so I can finally get everything I order off the TV shipped at local rates.

I'm going to cover a bike in rotating sawblades, random spikes and blinding halogen lamps, so when people are like, "It's just like riding a bike!" I can wheel that sumbitch out with all it's klaxons going and be like, "Hop on, motherfucker."

I want the Islamo-socialist-fascists to finally win the War on Christmas, so when the inevitable re-enactors show up to fight the past at a local shopping mall, I'll be crouched the illuminated fountain naked (so I CAN'T BE SEEN BY INFRARED) and claim that Bill O'Reilly sent me from the future to destroy the solstice.

I want to ban all condoms AND contraceptives from porn. It's just not a turn-on unless someone's life is potentially being ruined or made.

I want TNT to reshoot all of season one of Rizzoli and Isles with New England Patriots tight end Rob Gronkowski and kicker Stephen Gostkowski. New name of the show? Rob and Steve Solve Murders!

I want to walk my dog across the invisible bridge from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade so that when he takes a shit it'll look like it's floating.

I want to see a movie where sensitive Irish character actor action star Liam Neeson kills the Minnesota Timberwolves, by a score of like 133-71. Also he murders Air Bud with a sword.

Since Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Roberts thinks law can be boiled down to simply calling "balls" and "strikes," I want to replace our entire justice system with Sabermetrics and have the conservative half of the high court traded for more picks in the worldwide Rule 4 Judgeship Draft.

I want to have a comic book named after me, called Judge Draft. Here are all my rulings: "Beer. Constant beer."

I want to sit on a Ph.D dissertation committee at MIT for a physics student named Lisa so that I can dismiss her findings by simply pounding the desk and saying, "At this university, we obey the laws of thermodynamics!"

I want the four corners states to put a thin-crust pizza across the borders. I like pizza, but I hate geography.

I want to run for political office based on a misreading of the 10th amendment that provides for "Steak's Rights." I will create a scrapbook of every endorsement that declares me the "A1 candidate."

I want a serious, legitimate celebrity dancing competition, not the glib pop-culture sideshow that currently irresponsibly determines our nation's semiannual Mirror Ball Champion.

I want TurboTax to allow a section for uploading face-melting guitar solos as charitable deductions. I also want people who own Saab Turbos to be taxed to within an inch of their fucking lives. It's like they can't even buy a Volvo without somehow being an asshole about it.

For one week only, I want to swap New York City with every Florida tourist trap. People could buy bumper stickers like, "It's Five Boroughs Somewhere." Citizens would be required to wear airbrushed t-shirts on Wednesday, otherwise known as "Hat Day." Brooklyn would be renamed Margaritaville, where visitors are encouraged to sit a spell. People in Manhattan would have to explain which latitude they lived on, and everyone would be invited to eat cheeseburgers in Paradise (formerly the Bronx). Meanwhile, everyone in Florida could act like just being alive and surrounded by infrastructure made them heroes to all mankind.

I want to adapt Moby-Dick into a XXX Parody, but keeping all of the plot and dialogue and cetalogy while having no sex at all until the dude playing Captain Ahab screams, "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!" and then ending with Ahab-on-Ishemale bareback in Queequeg's coffin while the white, bloated corpse of Ron Jeremy floats by. Oh, and Ahab's peg-leg will be a dildo.

I want to paint "Land Here for a Free Jeep Cherokee!" on the suicide nets at Apple's Foxconn factories in China to jazz up All-Star weekend.

I want to throw a perfect spiral ham through a tire swing.

I want to give Brett Favre a literal-definition pair of "Wranglers" — real uncomfortable jeans — so his intense crimping and denim butt-creep gives him a vacant yet intensely focused expression on his face as he walks around in circles, yanking at his crotch and trying to pick fabric out of his crack, while passersby roll their eyes and say, "Wow, he's just like a little kid out there."

I want to complete the ten-year tantric orgasm that Sting started.

I will start the world's first hip-hop themed Bed and Breakfast, where morning singing lessons with the sweet old lady manager (J-Madge) are billed as "$50 Dollas to Make You Holla," all the in-room artwork is geometrically fucked-up airbrushed paintings by Young M.C. Escher, and people who return to their rooms after 10:30 at night find themselves loc'd after dark.

I want to find out how many white people I could interest in seeing "all the characters of The Wire" living in "reconstructed natural habitats," so you could interact with them "just as they are in West Baltimore," within the safe confines of a family friendly area. Then I want to find out how many of them would still be interested after I explained that I was talking about a fucking zoo.

I will get someone to send me the Maureen Dowd nudes.

I want to sink every boat at Hilton Head with the Steffi Graf Spee, then scuttle it.

I want to re-create Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure with a tedious Brooklyn indie band. After discovering a vintage phonebooth, they would travel back in time to experience historical events before they went mainstream, then return to the future and have a presentation about how authentic their experiences are, except it doesn't matter, because, "History's so gay now."

I'm going to become a font advisor for teens typing love letters and emails.

I will become the paranormal expert in both documentary and horror films who enters homes that have walls bleeding baby's breath, canapes and tulle — then calmly explains that they're built on an ancient Indian wedding ground.

I want to ride I want to ride I want to ride.

I will convince Ron Paul to vote against MILF Day becoming a federal holiday, because that's pretty much guaranteed to convince 99% of the rest of America that it's a bomb-ass idea.

Previous Editions:
Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up
More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up
Even More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up