My Bucket List

Ever see the movie “The Bucket List”? I haven’t, but I understand it’s about two old geezers who want to accomplish various things before their deaths. I think it’s beneficial for people to have goals and follow through with them. That’s what makes life so magnificent and wonderful: our ability to make our dreams come true.
Bearing that in mind, here is a list of some things I want to try, in no particular order:

Visit Paris. I’ve always heard the French were rude. I’m from New Jersey, so I can teach them a thing or two about rudeness.

Hunt wild animals in Africa. You’re not a man unless you can blast a lion’s head off with a bazooka, drenching the Serengeti with blood and animal parts.

Run with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. Foolish tourists prove their masculinity by getting gored annually. I will avoid this by giving the bulls a head start of about five minutes.

Fight a bull. Hemingway was right. Real men stab a charging wild bull in front of a crowd of frothing Spaniards.

Raise a son. I’d like to raise a son, impart him with life lessons my father taught me, and make him realize that as an Avedissian he can expect everyone to shit on him.

Climb a mountain. Nothing says exhilaration or thrills like standing on the rooftop of the world, where the air is thin and temperatures are below freezing. On second thought, maybe I’ll just dress in climbing gear and watch the movie K2.

Hot air ballooning in New Mexico. The desert always looks pretty when you’re standing in a wicker basket suspended under a giant balloon resembling a multicolored turtle.

Date a woman with a Bostonian accent. I think it would be fun to take her out for seafood and hear her order the “lobstah” or “chowdah.”

Whitewater rafting in the Grand Canyon. The Colorado River looks beautiful as it jostles your inflatable raft uncontrollably towards jagged rocks. How long will it be before park rangers find your body? Who knows!

Win the Nobel Prize for Literature. To achieve this, I’d have to write a book and have it published. Since no agents or publishers will comment on the manuscripts I’ve already sent them, I can assume the New York publishing industry is rife with philistines hell-bent on keeping me from fulfilling my dreams.

Hang glide off the Great Pyramid of Giza. While technically illegal and possibly never done, I still think it would be awesome to attempt, although life in an Egyptian prison might deter me.

Celebrity threesome. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Selma Hayek. That’s right. I went there.

Star in a Bollywood movie. No, not Hollywood. Bollywood. As in India. We could do an all Bollywood remake of Pulp Fiction with a massive dance number at the end.

Visit the Oval Office. I’ve had this fantasy about sitting across from the President and discussing the important issues of the day: domestic policies, America’s role in the future, and the various plot threads in the TV show Lost.

Go into outer space. I’d like to visit the International Space Station and just hang out and assist with the experiments or take a space walk. I’d freak the other astronauts out by convulsing and frantically screaming, “My God! It’s full of stars!”

Visit the Playboy Mansion. Lounging around with Hugh Hefner and the ladies, drinking and having fun is a great way to kill a weekend. Remember: what happens in the Grotto stays in the Grotto.

Go to Shanghai and order Chinese food. I hear that moo goo gai pan is better with the original kitten/rat combination.

Run for political office. It would be a real hoot to persuade people to vote for me and then use my office to bring positive changes to the world. They would never see that coming.

Visit all of the national parks. I’d like to show my patriotism by getting photos of myself with all of America’s national treasures, and ask every park ranger I see to give me a detailed lecture on everything. Twice. Just because they wear goofy hats doesn’t mean they can coast through the workday.

Watch the sun set over the Pacific at Big Sur. Then ask that surfer girl with strawberry blonde hair for a quickie on the beach before the grunions come out.

Ski the Matterhorn. Race down the slopes and watch life zip by at 80 miles per hour and then spend the next two weeks wearing a bodycast in a warm chalet while women give me cocoa and brandy. Because if I ski the Matterhorn, that’s exactly what would happen.

Wrestle an alligator. The terror of the Everglades is no match for me and my savage might. If this can’t happen, I’d then settle for wrestling either Lucy Liu or Heidi Klum.

Attend a garden party on Long Island. What fun it would be getting drunk around New York’s elite, throwing icy drinks in the faces of the high and mighty in a quick-tempered huff, and generally enthralling those gathered with tales of making it big on Wall Street/Hollywood/daddy’s law firm.

Be a contestant on Jeopardy. I’d stun Alex Trebek with my plethora of knowledge on absolutely everything, and win millions of dollars in prize money, or at least walk away with the shitty home version of the game.

Win big in Las Vegas. I’d take every casino, from the Venetian to the Luxor to the Bellagio. Pit bosses would sweat nervously when I enter their establishments. I’ll break the bank everywhere and use my winnings to buy a large suite and fill the Jacuzzi with champagne and high-class escorts.

Have a pizza party with the Pope, Dalai Lama and Islamic and Jewish leaders. Pizza just brings people together.