In the above case, that machine is called the simple human heart.
Nevertheless, the conundrum facing the Destructo crew for several years was this: How do we find newer feats of mental daring and near-impossibilities of time and space that we have not already accomplished? And how, given our 100% success rate in meeting our goals, can we ever outline new goals in which our readers might see the faintest glimmer of failure? What happens when a shadow no longer falls between the idea and the reality?
An idea presented itself in January, 2013 when journalist David J. Roth wrote to regret that his submissions for January, 2012, sent by passenger pigeon, had been unavoidably delayed by that species' extinction for 99 years and that he would try to forward them via "interior crocodile alligator." The denial of an object or goal seemed to be a goal in itself.
We thought of embracing the noble truths of the Buddha, but abandoned that concept when we realized that there is no documented evidence of that man ever wearing a shirt. Instead, we chose to embrace a state of post-accomplishment, a place beyond goals, neither above nor below metrics but askance from them. We chose a heaven where nothing ever happens.
Needless to say, 2013 would have been an unqualified success if indeed success or failure had been possible. And, despite the overwhelming likelihood of each pledge below being satisfied thoroughly, early and often, 2013 opens 2014 to the possibility that maybe—just maybe—what you're about to read may, this once, just be words.
Everything below was written by Jeb Lund, General "Bro_Pair" Ze'evi, Cory Harris, Justin Shapiro, David J. Roth and Mark Hengge. We renew our respects to our fallen comrade, Mark Brendle (RIP), who at this time in 2013 was killed in a tragic midchair collision.
And Yet More Things I Want To Do When I Grow Up:
I'm going to chloroform my kids. Not even just as punishment. Sometimes just because it's chloroform time. Because not every nap or evening needs to end on a story. Sometimes the story is, "Mr. Smelly Rag Wants A Kiss."
I'm going to convince the Pope to change his name to Francis V, so his blessing can just be a high-five, straight to the forehead.
I will become financially secure by buying defective Young Bill Murray wax figures, altering their "hair" slightly, and then re-selling them as Sen. Ted Cruz wax figures.
I will end Tek War in the Middle East.
I'm going to make a historical adaptation of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries called Fritz Fischer's Murder Mysteries. In every episode, the culprit is Imperial Germany.
I will save the environment by appealing to Americans' natural lethargy with an indoctrinating children's book that begins, "I am the Lowrax. I smoke all the trees."
I'm going to walk up to everyone in a "Hollister HS" shirt and go, "OH, HOLY SHIT, DUDE! YOU WENT TO HOLLISTER, TOO? WELL I DON'T RECALL HANGIN OUT WITH YOU, BECAUSE YOU MUSTA BEEN SOME KINDA TURBONERD WHO STOLE THAT LACROSSE SHIRT. ACTUALLY, I WAS THE HOLLISTER BULLY, CHECK IT." Then I'll take out a squirt gun labeled "Hollister Toilet Water" and squirt them in the face and be like, "Ahahahaha! SWIRLY!"
I want to reveal to the world Robin Thicke's secret identity as an Animorph.
I want to change "chunked" to "twerked" on the Waffle House menu because that's what I want to think about when my scattered hashbrowns are going HAM.
I want to rent a tiny apartment with an inexplicably full kitchen. I want to dedicate myself to the kitchenist lifestyle. I want to be told to check my kitchen privilege by an angry Tumblr social justice enthusiast, then refuse to do so. Then I'll reveal that my otherkin headmate is a kitchen and that I'm just trying to live within myself.
I will fuck the ampersand in Skull & Bones.
I want to marry into money. I want to marry further and further into money until I am lost from human sight for all time, until rubies crust over my eyes and all I can see is red, red, red.
I will devise a metric for charting rodent fear and call it "Capybarometric Pressure." This will become the number one global metaphor for anxiety.
I'm going to write an acid lit book in the style of Robert Anton Wilson and use the pen name Venison Bongninja. The book will be mostly Nazi porn and Robert Heinlein writing Nazi porn.
I'm going to bring back House, M.D. and produce new episodes on Netflix whenever Shailene Woodley is old enough to play the fifth Cameron. Most of the plots will be resolved by the patient sleeping on a firmer mattress, but there is one cool formula-subverting episode shot Body Wars-style where Sam Rockwell plays an eye booger that knows more than it lets on. A season long arc sees House purchase a new hat.
With the help of Siri, I want to publicly make every one of the Foer brothers feel profound and crippling sexual shame. Again.
I will make anyone who considers a Beyoncé gif an acceptable substitute for news, humor or analysis read one chapter of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and then write out "I apologize" once for each pageload.
I'm going to pee in Entourage: The Movie: The Video Game: The Interactive Website: The Podcast: The 7-Eleven Cup. (@realEntourageMovieGameSitePodCup)
I will create a series of fake European documentaries designed to confuse and reinforce the prejudices of bozos by basing all "footage" on the histories of European countries as understood by slackjawed American yokels. Italy will just be an incredibly fat and hirsute man sweatily railing a voluptuous brunette with flawless Robert Palmer girl lipstick bent over an accordion while chugging a 20-ounce bottle of Prego.
I will throw a party for me and all my Twitter friends and if it turns out that people think that idea's lame, ahahahaha so do I, that never actually happened.
I will make an amateur porn movie that contains no sex or nudity but instead all the conversations between the couple and the guy who is filming them in their house. The only facials in it are Jim Halpert shrugging.
When I grow up I want to be known for cooperating with investigations.
I will reveal behind-the-scenes video from the making of Space Jam that shows Michael Jordan bullying Bugs Bunny relentlessly during the filming of basketball scenes from the film. Calling him "Babs Bunny" all the time, the whole thing. I don't like it, personally, but I guess that's how Michael brought the best out of his co-stars.
I will not rest until the most popular boy's name in America is Baxter and the most popular cat's name is Kevin.
I want to appear in Jon Gruden's dreams as THIS GUY and start peeling off my clothes and say, "YOU KNOW SOMETHING ABOUT THIS GUY? HE'S HORNY. HE JUST COMES OUT EVERY DAY AND HE'S HORNY"
I'm going to build a shoulder-mounted salt-water aquarium background because I think it's a real power move when you address people while standing in front of fish they've never seen before.
I'm going to turn every superfluous hashtag on Facebook into a swastika.
I want to buy a special pair of sunglasses that renders people's bodies as animations in aspirin and ibuprofen ads—fellow citizens walking around, totally unaware that I now see them as black silhouettes with radiating red spots and bright expanding Helvetica caps reading, "BRA TIGHTNESS" and "ASS PAIN."
I will fuck the Hamburglar.
I will burgle the Hamfucker.
I'm going to convince children across America that if they hold a flashlight in front of the mirror and say "Tallow" into it three times, the Candleman will appear and burn them to death or turn them into McDonald's french fries.
I'm going to print out an archive of every instance of someone using "I want [time period] of my life back" on the Internet and make anyone who posts that in a comment section read the thing cover to cover or until they die, whichever comes first.
One day I hope to see a condo "go building."
I want to create a photo archive of famous people doing things they're no damn good at. Like Thomas Edison doing the caber toss, or David Gilmour writing lyrics, or the Bush presidency.
I will train the world to drop a shot of whiskey into wine and make a Le Boilermaker.
I will convince an editor at Townhall.com that I am former NFL coach Bill Parcells, and then write weekly columns that are either about eliminating Social Security to create "a society of winners" or are just bullet-pointed lists of male grooming tips for "middle-aged dads who aren't afraid to look like champions." It becomes a book, probably.
I want to switch everyone's cell phone buttons from TONE to PULSE.
I want to join the E Street Band and get one of those cool E Street Band nicknames like, "The Big Dickless" or "The Lying White Devil."
I want to make enough money to fly Nancy Grace to the funeral of every black person killed in America in one year.
I'm going to become the first person ever to make partner at J.D. Power and Associates, then change my name to Bottom, so car commercials have to say things like, "The all new Chevy Tundra was ranked #1 overall in performance by J.D. Power, Bottom and Associates."
I will write a biography of my beautiful, courageous four-year-old autistic son and the Big Pharma scheme that poisoned him and call it, Measles, Mumps, Rubella and Edward.
Every time someone smugly edits a Wikipedia page to add "[Citation needed]," I will make sure they're trampled to death by a horse that won the Triple Crown.
I will reboot Will Smith's Hitch, but replace Smith with the popular Inspirational Fake Will Smith accounts on Twitter. This 1) shaves tens of millions of dollars off the bottom line instantly and 2) insures that the film will not just be seen by, but actually inspire, hundreds of thousands of less-discerning teens and professional athletes.
I will electrocute Wes Anderson so many times that he begins shaking in terror if he even sees mustard, much less thinks of adding it to a color palette.
I don't care about the non-disclosure agreement. I'm gonna call a good attorney, then release that video of Judd Apatow screaming at all his dinner guests because nobody is allowed to start eating until his butler says, "Judd Appetit."
I want the bass line from “Another One Bites the Dust” to be the tenth part of speech. A complete sentence will include a noun, a verb, and John Deacon.
I will make it so that everyone hears the Frau Blücher horse-whinnying scream from Young Frankenstein whenever someone describes himself as "Twitter famous." I will however put that on my business card in a bit of minimalist design so sublime that it reduces people to tears. People with money.
I want Tex Winter's son to try to one-up his father by spending years in a laboratory trying to perfect the Dodecahedron offense, running simulations in a dank basement basketball court with a rusting chain net and a backboard made of glossy photos of Phil Jackson. "YOU'RE NOT HIS CHILD!" he'll scream at the backboard. He'll challenge the reconvened 1993 Chicago Bulls to a scrimmage, only to learn his offense doesn't work since you can't play all twelve players at once. Bill Cartwright will take pity, embracing the distraught young man, and sagely tell him it's okay because he tried his best. Then they'll have a catch, but realize playing tossing a basketball back and forth is really boring.
I will hack Twitchy, RedState, The Blaze and The Daily Caller so that their avatars and logos are just a Venn diagram of banality and evil.
I want a real cooking show for cannibals, not some bullshit 30 Minute Meals or home cook program but one where they really get the ingredients, you know? One where Guy Fieri wears someone's face backwards on his head and makes puns like, "Having an appendix as an appetizer??? I thought the appendix goes at the end."
I want a 8-1 Supreme Court ruling that TBS must pay compensation for all the hours baseball fans spent seeing promos for its terrible programming. Alito will be the only one to go against the majority, praising Sullivan and Son for its race-based humor in a two word dissent: "Very funny."
I'm going to get Donald Trump a job as an art docent at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He will lead school groups and well-behaved collections of elderly Danish people around the contemporary art wing, reminding them that "this is our most exclusive and premium tour, everyone loves it," and incorrectly asserting how much each painting is worth.
I want dogs to get so into skateboarding that you can hang around the steps of the public library and just wait for them to try to skim down the railing and laugh when they fall down and not be criticized for it because they're asking for it by being so reckless.
I want to take part in a murder mystery sponsored by the national news media where it turns out that the culprit is "society" and everyone wins because of course it is.
I will create a popular body spray that smells like Adam Carolla looks, thinks and acts, and in so doing end sex forever.
I want to film a new age version of the "Sword of Damocles" legend but replace the sword that hangs over the throne with the complete Blu-Ray set of the Ernest P. Worrell television show episodes. The film would be from Vern's perspective, so it would literally be 90 minutes of him looking straight up at the DVDs. All of it would be in sepia tone.
I want to set up an alternative to 911 where if you dial 9-9-9 Herman Cain will save you from a pizza emergency.
I want to mandate there be animal dongs in every Nativity scene.
I want to just once dress up as Arnold Schwarzenegger and while having sex say, "Come with me if you want to live," and not have to say, "Get it?" right after.
I want to be able to approve every new Hitler biography by blurbing, "It's Swastikastic!"
I want Adele's cover of Kirk Van Houten's "Can I Borrow a Feeling" to play over the "In Memoriam" reel at this year's Oscars. A sobbing William Shatner will ask for the car keys from his lover so he can change wigs.
I want to join the army, get pinkeye, and use other sniper's scopes when they're not looking.
I want Mayor McCheese to finally be primaried by a Tea Party challenger, only to keep his position when his opponent gaffes about Birdie thinking Chicken McNuggets are morning-after pills.
I will fuck Mayor McCheese.
I want a page-a-day calendar made of tabs of acid. "Let's see what the day has in store." Buddy, I don't know yet either.
I want everyone who didn't vote Barry Bonds into the Hall of Fame and made money as a baseball writer while he played to have an asterisk next to every mention of them as a journalist. This isn't really a joke.
I want to teach Dave Coulier to field strip an M1 Garand in one minute while sobbing uncontrollably.
I want every fourth round in a gun magazine to shoot out a piece of coupon that says, "If this is the bullet that would have stopped a home invasion, a school shooting, or a tyrannical government, you win free Chik-Fil-A!" None of these would be redeemed.
I will create a superhero team of vedic, intransigent withholding consisting of Gregg Popovich and Bill Belichick, then set them to roam cities they're unfamiliar with and give luxuriantly unhelpful directions to tourists wanting to get places whose locations they don't know either.
I will offer heated testimony before a Senate committee advocating that the word "werewolf" officially be changed to "weirdwolf." Later I will make the same case before the Supreme Court, arguing that the change "more closely reflects the framers' intentions."
I want everyone to look back fondly on Ricky Gervais' performance in the Muppets movie and all the choice bits he treated us to, like the one about hands up arses (gay) and the one about how his friends Karl Pilkington and Warwick Davis were weird little ugly muppets themselves, look at 'im! Hoo hoo!
I will force all residents of the state of Florida to put their fucking cars in their fucking garages where they fucking belong.
I want to finally get to the bottom of all the insidious but clear links between Sandy Hook and The Dark Knight Rises and our shadowy government cabal's sole slip-up of arrogantly signing the crimes of its complex conspiracies in the viral marketing of summer blockbusters. Thanos "courts death" at the end of The Avengers? And what just so happen to be the two things that we as a nation encounter next? Death and courts. Curious, wouldn't you say? And all this on top of the telltale trail of hidden clues that led to the 2008 discovery of a Cloverfield Monster.
I will run a one-man sting operation on Taco Bell in which I see what they're willing to pay for various hideous meat substitutes—e.g. "Codger Solids," "Goatmeal," "Elf Paste," "PossMmm"—for use as beef in various products.
After the collapse of print journalism, I will become a successful, respected touchscreen coordinator writing for the Seattle Post-Post-Intelligencer.
Since the 2012 election was the last time in history that a presidential campaign strategy could feasibly attempt to predominantly rely on white voters, I want to look back fondly on the Monday night before that Election Day and the magical evening when we, all of the white people, gathered for one last bash to celebrate our storied run: the beach, the bonfire, the white wine, the red wine, the acoustic guitar, the ironic acoustic guitar covers of pop songs that you'd think oughtn't be such, the misinterpretation by some of what ended up being a decidedly non-orgy.
I will put Thompson's Water Seal on a water spaniel and watch it drown to death just sitting on the kitchen floor. Then I'll bring it back to life, because I'm not some kind of sicko.
I'm going to break it to everyone that neither Batman nor Don Draper are their real life friends. I'm sorry. Your dreams are beautiful, but they are false. "Oh man, now that you mention it, can you imagine both of those playboy sonsaguns teaming up, probably working on some kind of ad campaign for Gotham's—" Nope. Nope. Sssshhhhh.
I will re-record Huey Lewis and the News' "Hip to Be Square" note for note and replace the "Here, there, and everywhere / Hip, hip, so hip to be square" part formerly sung by San Francisco 49ers linemen with devastatingly cute women from Tumblr whose "about" pages convey the belief that owning a pair of black-frame glasses and a DVD copy of My Neighbor Totoro makes them "kind of a nerd."
I will infiltrate the Men's Rights movement, then leak the results of an informal community poll revealing how many adherents can only masturbate while listening to Papa Roach's "Last Resort." (It is a two-digit number beginning with a seven.)
I'm going to determine what my spirit animal is as soon as I figure out which members of the animal kingdom are known for their alcoholism.
I want to be a political activist working to oppose all safeguards against nuclear proliferation, because evil can't be legislated and if bad people are determined to do bad things, it simply doesn't matter what weapon they possess. Iran will then prove my point once and for all when they drop an especially large bowling ball on Israel.
Every time I order a salad at a restaurant and the waiter lists the dressing choices, I'm going to answer, "Undressed..." then close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath.
I will make light bulbs even curlier.
I will long to hear once more the stirring NBC Sunday Night Football theme of my bygone youth, as performed by Faith Hill. But by then, its tune will only be a ghost's whisper in the breeze, its lyrics an echo's echo to my brain's ear ... how did it go? Sing us a song, won't you?
♪♫ OKAY SUNDAY HEY FOOTBALL GAMEI will dress uncomfortably close enough to looking like Jesus that going around and telling strangers random things like, "This angel hair is the fucking tits," completely ruins their day.
THE TEAMS ARE GONNA FIGHT, HERE'S A PLAYER'S NAME
STADIUMS. FANS. THIS PART'S THE SAME
SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL, SCORE A TD
AL AND CRIS ARE, I GUESS, ON TV
FIRST DOWNS AND FIELD GOALS, POOP AND PEE
CUZ THE NFL SUX ON NBC ♫♪
I will personally run a political campaign that ends with a handgun being elected as the junior U.S. Senator from the state of Georgia. The handgun has a fake mustache stuck to it.
I want to grow up so that, as per the tattered gypsy's curse, I would no longer have to be a Toys"R"Us kid.
If the NSA is going to spend all those resources tracking my calls, emails, online activity and texts, I'm going to make sure that the least they do is vouch for the fact that I'm over you, STACY.
I will make Jack Reacher a kind of a Rocky Horror thing where dudes masturbate their guy neighbors in the theater and yell "Jack Reacher!" whenever Tom Cruise is on the screen.
I will set in motion the ever-increasing redneck dumbfuckening of the United States that will culminate in the winning 2040 Presidential candidate being a GOP woman named "Fancy."
I will deliver love's prime ministrations to every part of the rump parliament.
I will finally publish interviews with members of Pink Floyd proving once and for all that I wrote the music and lyrics to "The Great Gig in the Sky" on your mom.
Due to my consistent lobbying of congress, MILF Day will become America's first federally mandated laid holiday. Everyone gets off.
I will get a full-time paid writing job in 2014. Or, fuck it, just a fun one.
• 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
• Yet More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up