Every year, around this time of year, pundits ’round the world remind us to be thankful of the simple things in our lives. That’s great. It soothes the guilt of conspicuous consumption and makes us feel a little holier-than-ourselves for at least a week or two. So I’m thinking of writing something that has no connection whatsoever to such profound emotion; I thought I’d fire off a list of five things I’m asking Santa for this Christmas, and they’re in no particular order.
- The Ability to Choke Pat Sajak From Long Distances. I find him condescending and arrogant, and for some reason I’d love to be able to make the sign and ol’ Pat would start clutching his throat, no matter where he was in the world. That sort of power would make me very, very happy, and I’m not sure why.
- A Fully Funded Gulfstream V Aircraft. That’s right….I said fully funded. It’s no miracle in and of itself to be able to wiggle through the financing process of jet ownership; it’s the maintenance, operating costs and other assorted minutiae that would make owning such a fine bird a bummer. It does me no good to have one parked in my shop if I can’t afford to fly up Minnesota for gelled fish eyeballs at a moment’s notice.
- An Hour With Those In Life Who’ve Wronged Me, Ever. If my mortal enemies, nemesis’s (nemesii?), and sworn foe cannot be reasoned with in an hour, it will probably never happen. So, in the spirit of the season, I’d like to spend an hour with each of them to try and see through our differences. That, or inflict great bodily harm. This should take approximately three years, by my calculations.
- The Motorcycle. We’ve talked about this in several posts. The Wife won’t ever let me get one, but I doubt she could deny you, Santa. So get on it fat man, let’s make this happen. Speaking of which………
- My Metabolism, Circa 1991. Today, I ate chili and am, literally, chewing on Tums as I write this post. I gained three pounds from the Tums alone. I long for the days when I could order every single thing from a Taco Bell without irony. Essentially, this must be how Alec Baldwin feels. I was watching him in “The Hunt For Red October” and then later that week on “30 Rock”, and instead of laughing at his comedic presence, I was empathizing with what is no doubt his crippling sense of self-loathing. No wonder he screamed at his daughter. He probably couldn’t fit into his pants that morning. Right there with you, Alec.