Where, Indeed, Is My Sugar Cookie?

Dear friends,

The Hard Taco song for April is called, "Sugar Cookie." I would dissuade you from listening to this piece of music or reading another line of this memoir unless you are squarely in your third or fourth decade of life. I fear that the vulgar nature of what lies herein may have deleterious effects on the moral stability of the young and the physical stability of the old. With that admonition, I reluctantly proceed with my tale of depravity.

I will not dispute that I fancy myself to be rather an enthusiast of highbrow humor. Truthfully, I find forays into satire by a loquacious dry wit to be utterly charming. Take, for instance, this amusing folly:

"René Descartes, do you not think that Anselm's ontological argument is impeccable in comparison to your own?"

"I think not."

Descartes ceases to exist.

No need to feel contrite if this humorous quip compelled you to laugh aloud. I, too, find this breed of drollery to be quite diverting! Quite diverting, indeed.

It came as a bit of a surprise then, when I was invited to present a joke following the annual medical student roast, "The Smoker." If you are not familiar with this Smoker, I envy you, for it is only the vilest scourge to afflict our otherwise distinguished university. It is a boorish theatrical production, known for lampooning the medical school faculty with vulgar impersonations and other churlish japes that straddle the line between meager tomfoolery and abject buffoonery.

Let it be known that I do not shrink from a wry lambasting. Nay! As I have already clearly demonstrated, I am a true devotee of scintillating jocularity. I profess that this Smoker, sadly, does not fall into this category.  It is truly philistine.

Unfortunately, there is no easy recourse for those, such as myself, who are invited to participate in this base pageant of tiresome vagaries. Refusing such an invitation would serve only to incite the devilish furies of the brutes who author this production, prompting them to fabricate even more obscene and incommodious impersonations of the refusing party. This, in turn, could disparage one's good name and even jeopardize one's livelihood.

I tell you all this, dear friends, so you understand the paucity of options I had at this juncture. I had no recourse but to recite a joke that was either ribald or scatological. And while it burned me to the very bosom of my pith to do so, I created the aforementioned musical number, a companion piece if you will, which I grudgingly consented to perform that self-same night, before an audience of approximately 650 people.

I now admonish you, one last time, to read no further. While I have acquiesced to repeat the text of this profane treatise, you are by no means obligated to read it. If you must, God have mercy on both our souls.


The Sugar Cookie Joke:

So this guy has buttworms, right?

So he goes to his doctor and she pulls down his pants and says, "Yep, you've got buttworms. I want you to go home and come back tomorrow with an apple, an orange, and a sugar cookie."

So the next day, the guy comes back with those three things. The doctor pulls down his pants and bends him over. Then she takes the apple and shoves it up the guy's butt. She waits 30 seconds, then she takes the orange, and she shoves it up the guy's butt. Then she waits another 30 seconds, takes the sugar cookie, and shoves it up the guy's butt. 

"I want you to come back tomorrow," she says, "and bring an apple, an orange, and a sugar cookie."

When he does, the same thing happens. She takes the apple and shoves it up the guy's butt, waits 30 seconds, shoves the orange up the guy's butt, waits 30 seconds and shoves the sugar cookie up the guy's butt.

This goes on for seven days, and each day the same thing happens. Finally, on the seventh day, she tells him to go home, and come back the next day with an apple, an orange, and a hammer. When he comes back, she pulls down his pants, bends him over, and shoves up the apple. Then she waits 30 seconds and shoves up the orange. Then she waits 30 seconds.

Nothing happens. Another 30 seconds.

Nothing. One minute passes. Two minutes pass.

Finally, on the third minute, the buttworm pops out and says, "WHERE'S MY SUGAR COOKIE?!"

...and she hits it over the head with the hammer!

With warmest regards,
Zach

Hard Taco Digest: CAPPSSS LOCKKKK!!!!!

Dear Friends,

Volcanoes!!

That's the name of the Hard Taco song for March. It's a tale of science, jealousy, the scientific method, redemption, and testing a hypothesis.  As per usual, savvy click-makers who follow this link will be treated to a song and lyrics. As per unusual, I am also including stage directions, because you will want to act this out while singing it in the shower.

Once again:  Volcanoes!!

The first exclamation mark is there to give your weekend a little extra juice. The second is to facilitate the juicing up of your coming week, as well.

Notice that I call it an exclamation mark, not an exclamation point. Indeed, this august pillar of literary enthusiasm contains a point, but the same can be said for just about any punctuation symbol. Calling "!" an exclamation point is like referring to the Dalai Lama as "His Holiness the 14th Forearm." It only tells part of the story, and it's not even the best part.

The exclamation mark is a versatile but underutilized symbol. It can serve to indicate...

Surprise, excitement, fear or anger:
Dude!

A musical:
Oklahoma!

Surprise, excitement, fear, anger, and a musical:
Mamma Mia!

The end of every e-mailed sentence:
Andrea! I heard you got a haircut! Yay! I hope you are surviving this weather! Let's have breakfast some time! Say hi to Ben for me!

Advertising prowess:
South Side Clinic: Medicine By Homeless People, For Homeless People!

Spookiness:
Hell is throwing a cocktail party... and you're my plus one!

The beginning and end of any Spanish sentence.
¡Puedo comer vidrio y no me hace daño!

The factorial function:
6! = 720

A Eureka moment for a Mexican mathematician:
¡6! = 720!

That you are Edgar Allen Poe and you're in the middle of a sentence:
Beside the larder, oh! there was a dole-some rapping. 

That you are missundaztood:
P!nk
 
That an alien is flipping you off with both hands:
_!_ (o_o) _!_

A confused scream (when used in combination with a question mark):
Our keynote speaker is just a forearm?! What happened to the rest of the Dalai Lama?!

You are fully juiced for the next seven days:
Volcanoes!!


With warmest regards,
Zach

Ours Is Not to Reason Why

Dear Friends,

The Hard Taco song this month is called, "Gabillionaire." I dedicate this song to my Grandpa Arnold, who gave me my first taste of child labor.
 
Grandpa Arnold stopped working as a plumber before I was born. He spent the second half of his career as owner and operator of a small plumbing retail business, the Franklin Plumbing Supply. Every time we visited, there was a suspiciously temporary-looking sign on the stockroom door that read, "Zachary N. London, Warehouse Manager." A similar sign on the door by the desk said, "Sari R. London, Office Manager." I was pretty sure that my sister's sign stayed up, even when we weren't visiting. The warehouse manager position rotated among me and my four male cousins, but Sari was the only granddaughter, so she had the secretarial assignment locked up.

Grandpa Arnold at the warehouse door with cousin Kyle, my new assistant warehouse manager. April 1986.

"All employees," Grandpa Arnold was fond of saying, "earn a standard wage of 10 cents per hour per year of age." Year after year, the office manager somehow held on to the title of highest paid employee.

You may think that as warehouse manager, I would have more of an administrative or supervisory role, but my primary job was taking inventory of the fittings. For the benefit of those who have never managed a plumbing supply warehouse, fittings are defined as follows: small pieces of plumbing stuff. My grandpa tried to teach me the difference between galvanized and ungalvanized fittings, tee adapters, flare fittings, and hose clamps, but it was no use. I was hopelessly distracted by calculating how many more hours I would have to work to afford the most recent Xanth novel.

Had I continued my employment at the Franklin Plumbing Supply into my teens, I would have appreciated the vivid nomenclature of the trade on an entirely different level.  Gas cock. Male/female coupling. Discharge tube. O ring. Packing nut. French drain. Alas, at the age of 10, I had no appreciation for the comic or erotic value of these terms, and I just slipped deeper into a greasy blue-collar ennui. 

"Let's go over this one more time," Grandpa said. "This brass nipple has both a female end and a 6 inch male extension."

"Hmm? Oh, okay."

"Screw nuts," he added. "Black ballcock."

I earned my 10 cents per hour per year of age counting the number of fittings in each drawer.  Then I would write the tally down on a torn piece of paper and place the paper in the drawer. My piece of paper would inevitably be there when I visited the following year, but the number of fittings would have changed, so I'd have to start over. After some time, it occurred to me that Grandpa Arnold wasn't actually using my numbers for anything, and he was just trying to keep me occupied. I complained about this, and asked him why I still had to do it, but I already knew the answer.

"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

You may recognize this as an erroneous quotation from The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Tennyson. It was Grandpa Arnold's favorite poem, and his favorite answer to any why question.

Sometimes we would go on road trips in his pick-up truck to procure new stock for the shop.  "The difference between a friendly competitor and an unfriendly competitor," he would tell me, "is a 45 minute drive." These restocking trips were always long, because we couldn't give business to any unfriendly competitors. To pass the time, my grandfather would do three digit multiplication problems in his head and quiz me on what he called SAT words. I'm not sure if Grandpa Arnold ever took the SAT, but he would have aced it.

Sari's job was to answer the phone and say, "Franklin Plumbing Supply." That was the extent of her secretarial duties. Regardless of how the person on the other end of the line responded, she would let him finish, wait a couple seconds, and say, "Hang on. I'll get Arnold." 10 cents per hour per year of age meant that this routine earned her up $2 more than me every day. I had more than one tantrum about this inequity.

"It's not fair! All she does is answer the stupid phone and I have to take inventory all day and carry around PVC and move that self-rimming sink. Why is Sari laughing when I say self-rimming? And why does she get paid more?"

"Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die."

Most of his customers were other plumbers. I can't say he was friendly with them, because he wasn't exactly friendly with anyone. Still, there was a sober camaraderie among the plumbers, a brotherhood of men who had, at one time or another, stood inside a septic tank and looked out at the rest of the world.

My most vivid memory of the Franklin Plumbing Supply was the smell. Everything in that building, from the Norman Rockwell calendar to the cabinet full of carbon paper, had the same peculiar smell. It was the smell of grease, or rather the smell of greases. The smell of the soap-thickened grease from the pipe threader mixed with the smell of the thin powdery grease on all of the fixtures and fittings. Then there was the stale dry grease that seasoned the linoleum and my grandfather's fingers.

This grease blend was the smell of my childhood. Grandpa Arnold died when I was 13, and soon the Franklin Plumbing Supply was sold off to an unfriendly competitor. It has been almost 25 years, and I have not been able to recapture that smell, but I know I would recognize it instantly. 

I can imagine him walking from room to room every morning before the store opened, daubing his effects with assorted greases to maintain the perfect pH balance. And of course, he would be practicing his SAT words. The multipurpose lubricating grease is unctuous and velvety. The silicone grease is elegant, yet austere. When the two are co-infused with the house pomade, I'll have created a perfectly robust and intellectually satisfying amalgam. 

With warmest regards,
Zach

A First Look at Virgin Galactic

Dear Friends,

There is a grand tradition of Jewish people writing Christmas music. The best-selling single of all time, White Christmas, was composed by Irving Berlin, whose real name was Israel Isidor Beilin. The list goes on. Winter Wonderland, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, Let it Snow, Santa Baby, You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch, and Silver Bells were all written by Jews. José Feliciano, the author of Feliz Navidad, was actually born Mordecai Simchah Gefilte Fishman ben Moishe Saul Cohen-Lowenstein Rabinowitz. True story.

This month, I grapevine in the footsteps of my ancestors with this medley of short Christmas songs. I hope you find them to be the perfect musical milieu for screaming at mall clerks who politely ask to see a receipt for the thing you're trying to return.

My senior year in college was probably the last time I knowingly disseminated Christmas cheer. My five housemates and I held occasional meetings to accuse each other of leaving unwashed dishes in the sink or to complain about the 50 pound bag of rice that was purchased without unanimous consent. That December, we held a house meeting to vote on whether to sublet our extra bedroom to an enigmatic Asian fiddle player. We agreed to do so if two conditions were met: 100% of his rent money would go towards Christmas lighting, and the display would be so garish that it could be seen from space. The electrical nightmare we created stretched well past the point of vulgarity, but unfortunately, there was no easy way to verify that it was visible to astronauts.

At this point, I wiggle my fingers and say, “DOO-da-la-doot, DOO-da-la-doot,” to indicate that we are traveling forwards in time to the present day. This year, overweight rich people will finally be able to journey to edge of the cosmos and look down on earth. 2014 is here, and this will be the year that commercial space travel takes off.

I predict that the industry will be referred to as "Rocketourism" by those who enjoy buzzwordplay, and that you will have heard both of those words here first.

How should you prepare for your first space tour? According to the Virgin Galactic website, you will leave from a spaceport in the New Mexico desert. Please plan to arrive at least 90 minutes in advance for sub-orbital flights, and 2 hours in advance for orbital flights. Bring copies of your passport, and pack light, because it takes 200 pounds of solid fuel to lift that 3 ounce tube of hand cream into space.

Following lift-off, the commercial spacecraft will reach a cruising altitude of 62 miles. Here, you will be treated to the ultimate sightseeing experience. Of course, you have seen the moon before, but few humans have seen it like this! Specifically, it will appear a bit smaller, because you will be a little farther away from it than usual.

While my old house in Providence is no longer visible from space, some claim that The Great Wall of China is. At its thickest point, the Great Wall is only about 30 feet across, the same width as a beach volleyball court. This is probably why the U.S. diverted so much money to the space program during the Cold War... most of the early manned missions were devoted to counting Soviet volleyball courts.

Anyway, a Virgin Galactic ticket includes a 30 minute space flight, unlimited Wi-Fi access and a complimentary copy of their inflight magazine, Thermospheres. This will run you just over $200,000 including bag fees, so keep an eye out for a Groupon offer.

As you glide back to earth, the cars on the interstate will look like tiny little ants scurrying in a line. As you draw closer, they will look more and more like giant, freakish ants. Holy crap… how long were you gone? Come closer still, and you will see that they're just cars. Phew.

Now let's talk about the elephant in the room... SAFETY. (And I'm not referring to Safety the Elephant from that fire department coloring book.) I understand your propensity to perseverate on the Challenger and Columbia disasters. Let's try to keep this in perspective, though. For every space shuttle that exploded, there were 2 space shuttles that didn't explode whatsoever. That already-favorable ratio is even more impressive when you consider NASA's practice of subcontracting all 20,000 spaceship parts to the lowest bidder. Virgin Galactic has much better quality control, because Sir Richard Branson personally inspects all defective O-rings. More importantly, all components are manufactured at a single location by employees of Virgin Industries. As you would imagine, most of them are kraut-rock singers who didn’t read the fine print in their record contracts.

One last piece of advice: Don't waste your time visiting the international space station. That place is a rocketourist trap.

With warmest regards,
Zach

Ranking the Armstrongs

Dear Friends,

   Here's something unusual. I'm going explain what this month's Hard Taco song is about.  
   In 1997, I decided to write a rock opera about George Armstrong Custer, the storied U.S. cavalry commander who died alongside all his men at the 1876 Battle of Little Bighorn. The ethically murky American Indian Wars seemed like a good backdrop for a musical, and General Custer made for a great lead character because he was brash and grandiose and tragic. As I read more about Custer's life, however, I was much more fascinated by his second-in-command, Major Marcus Reno. While Custer was charging into battle at Little Bighorn, Reno was leading a disorganized retreat from a skirmish a few miles away. Afterwards, he was a convenient scapegoat for a public that adored Custer and could not believe the U.S. Army had lost a major battle to the native tribes. Custer's widow, Libbie, and his biographer, Frederick Whittaker, made careers out of aggrandizing Custer's memory, and they were among the loudest voices decrying Reno as a coward.
   Three years after the Battle of Little Bighorn, Major Reno requested a court of inquiry into his own conduct during the battle, hoping to clear his name of these allegations. Although he was not officially found guilty of dereliction of duty, he was never acquitted in the public eye, and died penniless a few years later.
   This month's Hard Taco song, "Where Were You," tells a fictionalized account of the aforementioned trial, in which Libbie Custer and Frederick Whittaker stand as Reno's accusers. After this song languished on the most distant of back burners for 16 years, recording it is a major accomplishment for me. Even though I never got around to writing any other Custer songs, I think this one makes for a pretty good stand-alone mini-rock opera. Let me know what you think.
   In the meantime, enjoy this Celebrity Surname Smackdown, in which I rank famous people based on how true they are to their surnames (or in Custer's case, their middle names.)

 

Rank by arm strength:
Billy Joe Armstrong - Impressive. Sometimes, he stands perfectly still and only moves his arms.
Lance Armstrong - Plenty of leg strength, but I'm sure the systemic effects of the erythropoietin benefit his upper limbs, too.
Louis Armstrong - Spent 24 hours a day holding either a trumpet or a very large joint.
George Armstrong Custer - Had enlisted men trim his glorious moustache for him.
Neil Armstrong - A flag that weighs 5 pounds on earth only weighs 0.8 pounds on the moon. Loser.

Rank by youth:
Angus Young - Age 58.
Neil Young - Age 67.
Henny Youngman - Age 107.
Cy Young - Age 146.
Brigham Young - Age 212.

Rank by baldness:
William Baldwin - No baldness.
Alec Baldwin - No baldness whatsoever.
Stephen Baldwin - Zero baldness. Seriously, these guys all have great hair.
Tammy Baldwin - None, unless you count her fists, which are balled in the war against sexual assault in the military!

Rank by wealth:

50 Cent - Got rich. Did not die tryin'.

Tyra Banks - Gets a nickel every time someone buys a copy of the 1996 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

George Banks - Thanks to Mary Poppins, he got his old job back with a promotion!
Elizabeth Banks - So far she's doing okay, but the star of "Zach and Miri Make a Porno" and "The Hunger Games" will eventually be forced to decide between those two fates.
Lionel Richie - No hits since 1986 + two divorces + inconveniently extravagant daughter.
Joe Buck - Rumor has it that he's just living play-to-play.
Guy Ritchie - During one particularly doomed relationship, he donated his savings to the Kabbalah Centre in Los Angeles.

Eddie Money - Shouldn't have bought that second ticket to paradise.

Rank by smallness:
Stuart Little - 0'2" tall.
Martin Short - 5'7" tall.
Tiny Tim - 6'1" tall.

Rank by who is from the furthest West:

Adam West - Born in Walla Walla. Very west.
Kanye West - Born in Atlanta. Not very west.

Mae West - Born in Brooklyn.  Only considered the west if you live in Queens.

Oliver North - Born in San Antonio. Even if his last name was West, it would still be wrong.

Rank by who knows how to party hardy:
Laura Ingalls Wilder - Threw the best little house party on the prairie.
Gene Wilder - Two words: tunnel scene. And that's right after sniffing a poppy and singing the line, "Anything you want, do it."
Oscar Wilde - When I heard he spent time in jail for "gross indecency," I thought this guy was an animal! But then I learned the sad truth about his conviction... he was not actually in jail, but in gaol.

Rank by who is stiller?

Ben Stiller - Not at all still. Constantly moving, actually.

Jerry Stiller - As of press time, still not still. I'll keep you posted.

With warmest regards,

Zach

The Warring Factions Mostly Fight Each Other, but Occasional Tourist Deaths are Inevitable: A Travel Guide to Dakar, Senegal

Dear Friends,

People of Ann Arbor, you've had over a year to make nice with our Japanese Sister City. Are you ready to bond with our newest metro-sibling, Dakar?

When the West African city became our Li'l Sis in 1997, the hose of cultural dialogue between Ann Arbor and Dakar gushed freely. Regrettably, that stream has slowed to a awkward trickle. Today, let's put our big American thumbs over the mouth of that hose and squirt some high-pressure blasts of intercontinental intercourse at each other!

People of Dakar, I offer you this month's Hard Taco song,  “Baobab Weep,” in honor of the mighty baobab trees that you probably had to cut down to make room for your own Sister Cities sign.  I'd also like to take this opportunity to share with my readers what I've learned about your enchanting little whistle-stop.

Dakar is a multicultural, diverse city full of vibrant arts and traditions!  From the bustling markets of Marche Sandaga to the bustling thieves' dens of the Ouakam district, the people of Dakar know their way around a good bustle. The vast Atlantic coastline offers a pristine haven to watch seabirds and hear a local storyteller make boring-ass allegories about them.

Dakar, Senegal - Quick Facts/Theories 

Population: 2,476,400

Languages: Wolof, but they talk to tourists in French

Emblem: A beggar being pickpocketed by a benevolent tsetse fly

Flower: The Phallic Mangrove

Nickname: Dakar Noir, the classic fragrance by Guy LaRoche

Motto:  “The police force are useless for your safety, but if you speak French, they are good for asking directions.”

Exports: Empty mosquito repellent bottles, gum arabic, Manchester United shirts, conflict diamonds, biodiversity, leprosy clinical trial volunteers

Municipal anthem: “Pluck all your koras (eyebrow hairs), strike all your balafons (sexy poses)"

Politics: Dakar is the capital of Senegal and the home of both the president and prime minister. For decades, both positions have been held by members of the Lâcheté (Cowardice) Party, one of the many holdovers from the French Occupation.

Food and Drink:
Malnourishment is rare, but hunger is common, owing to Dakar's position as the westernmost city in Africa. An easterly wind occasionally carries the distant smells of Chik-fil-A up from the Atlantic. Predictably, this leads to devastating city-wide epidemics of mouth-watering.

Tourists should avoid drinking tap water, except on a dare. While it is unlikely to contain virulent microorganisms, the Dakar water supply is often contaminated with dauntingly large macroorganisms. It is not uncommon to lift a full glass to the lips only to discover that its entire contents are two massive amoebas clanging together. 

Culture:

Soccer, which they call "foot-ballsport," is the national pastime. They take it so seriously that most Senegalese foosball tables have a line of three plastic men faking knee injuries.

Nightlife:

Dakar is home to the world-famous Steam Bar. The room is kept at just over 100 degrees Celsius. The bar, table, stools, chairs and glasses are all made of steam, and the drinks are pre-boiled. This is fortunate, because most mixed drinks contain at least one shot-glass of giant amoeba. 

Useful phrases for Americans in Dakar:

Bonjour, je représente une organisation appelée "Dickheads sans frontières."

Hello, I represent an organization called "Dickheads Without Borders."

Ça vous dérange si mon mari pose pour une photo à côté de votre disparité socio-économique?

Do you mind if my husband poses for a picture next to your socioeconomic disparity?

Votre hospitalité est renommée. Oui, j'aimerais un repas traditionnel des boulettes de poisson et de riz à la pointe du fusil.

Your hospitality is renowned. Yes, I would love a traditional meal of fish balls and rice at gunpoint.

Vos lamas vont mourir, mais vous devez envoyer Heifer International une note de remerciement.

I realize that llamas can’t survive in this climate, but it wouldn’t kill you to send Heifer International a thank you note.

Vous avez raison de dire que ce sont drones américains tête. Essayez de regarder occupé.

You are correct that those are U.S. drones overhead. Try to look busy.

Je suis désolé d'apprendre que la paix dernier Corp bénévole juste assis autour et fumé toute votre marijuana. 

Nous allons essayer de faire mieux.

I am sorry to hear that the last Peace Corp Volunteer just sat around and smoked all your weed. We will try to do better.

Pouvez-vous croire que les filles équipe de plongée de Pioneer a gagné de nouveau en 2006?

Can you believe the Pioneer Girls Swim and Dive team won nationals again in 2006?

Plus, a few time-tested pickup lines:

Vous ne serez pas attraper scrumpox parce que j'ai des herbes dans mon pantalon.

You will probably not catch scrumpox from me, for I just applied an herbal remedy in the bathroom. 

Vos yeux énormes me font penser à un bébé occupé suscité.

Your enormous eyes remind me of a bushbaby in heat.

Aucun de nous comme parler de navires négriers.

I couldn't help but notice that you seem very uncomfortable discussing the history of the slave trade here. 

That makes two of us!

Puis-je vous acheter une amibe taille de balles de golf et tonique?

Can I buy you a golf-ball sized amoeba and tonic?

Non, Cal Tech a été mon école de sauvegarde.

No, Cal Tech was my safety school.

With warmest regards,
Zach

What's in YOUR Bucket?

Dear Friends,

    The Hard Taco song for October is called, "The Balloonman." I know of no nobler profession than the dauntless balloon driver of yesteryear, or even the somewhat less purposeful balloon driver of yesterweek. You, Balloonman, are the very image of strength, your lusty arm guiding our nation to prosperity with a firm tug on that cord... the one that adds more hot to the hot air.
    Riding a hot air balloon is actually the entirety of my bucket list. To clarify, I'm using the original definition of a bucket list, which is a slate of activities one hopes to pursue while standing in a bucket. My list used to include, "do an impression of the Nefarious Man-Mop," but I got to cross that one off last Halloween.
   The more familiar kind of bucket list, of course, is inclusive of both intrabucket and extrabucket activities. When you finish everything on this bucket list, it's time for you to die. As of this morning, hot air ballooning was the only thing I had on that list, too. This is cause for concern, since I hope to go on a balloon ride in the near future, and I'm hardly ready to be dead.
   This led me to www.bucketlist.org, where you can write personal goals or steal them from other people, and then check them off as you accomplish them. Everything on my list is a genuine ambition of mine. Maybe some of them are no great shakes; I could probably bang out half of these in a weekend. Others, however, are implausible enough to keep me alive for quite a while.

• Ride in a hot air balloon.
• Pinch a celebrity's cheeks.
• Serve my family a spaghetti dinner with no plates and no silverware. Just our hands and a tabletop covered with spaghetti, sauce, and Parmesan cheese.
• Go airport bar-hopping. (Fly from airport to airport and have a drink at each one.) 
• Get a hollow body guitar.
• Run across a rope bridge in the Andes.
• Set fire to a pile of money.
• Write thank you notes to a few of my favorite teachers.
• Go on a vacation, but don't pick the destination until getting to the airport.
• Have an actual live Hard Taco show.
• Have an injury that requires stitches.
• Shoot a dingo who has wronged me.
• Write a strongly-worded letter to a corrupt official.
• Fill out a Mad Lib narrative without any potty words, and have it still be funny.
• Find the wristwatch my dad lost in the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes in the 50's.
• Ride an octopus.
• Go Skijoring (Cross country skiing, pulled by a horse.)
• Design a corn maze in the shape of a bank logo.
• Go to Oktoberfest, Carnival, Day of the Dead, The Running of the Bulls, and Mardi Gras with Ricky Gervais.
• Let a goat walk around my house unsupervised.
• Join the "Furlong High Club" (A furlong is 1/8 of a mile, so this goal can only be achieved during take-off or landing.)
• Fall in love all over again in a Native American Sweat Lodge.
• Adopt a three legged animal or child.
• Throw a dart at a map and travel to wherever it lands.
• Throw a dart at the blueprints of my house and go into whichever room it lands.
• Pick someone's pocket.
• Learn to ride a unicycle.
• Return a stolen wallet while riding a unicycle.
• Own a four poster canopy bed with translucent sheets for walls and ceiling.
• Go swimming with a camel.
• Win more than $10 on a scratch off lottery game.
• Give a TED Talk or a celebrity roast.
• Eat illegal meat.
• Get into a fistfight.
• Ride a snowmobile out of a helicopter into a seaplane.
• Pay a surprise visit to an old friend who lives in another part of the world.
• Fall off a dogsled (I did this one already.) 
• Ride a mattress down a staircase without spilling the goldfish.
• Help someone else accomplish something on his or her bucket list.  

So what's on your list? If all you want to do before you die is fake a realistic seizure, I can definitely help you with that!

With warmest regards,
Zach