February 24, 2015

The Non-Annual, Bi-Frequently, Semi-Periodic Philadelphia Phillies Bucket List

Sadly, by Cindy Falteich

It’s time once again to face my certain mortality by compiling a grocery list of things no one would ever buy. It's much like the stuff you look forward to but are happy when it’s over—like the holidays. Or sex with your husband. Or mine. Or Super Bowl XLIX.

What the hell number is that anyway? Is that a niner in there? Guys, let’s stop pretending we’re Egyptian.

Or Greek. Or Thai. Or smart. In any case, the average football fan has no idea what you’re talking about. For Pete’s sake, I thought XLIX was the name of a drug. Or E.L. James had coined another term for erotic.

Or it was a test. If we’ve learned anything from politics, it should be that we hate thinking.

Anyway, as I sit here pondering my pre-death desires, I hopped on Facebook.

Isn’t that what everyone does when faced with an important decision? I get the best ideas from intimate stuff that’s been shared publicly. Like an STD.

My son tells me I should watch Vine videos. He says in six second intervals I can get everything I need.

I’m married. No duh.

Now, when I thought about the organization of my list, I considered bullets or numbers or pinning the tail on Chase Utley’s butt. I even tried little Ben Revere silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So I settled for the rant. Not only is the rant my favorite form of communication, it’s possibly the least effective one.

In that case, it’ll work quite well. I strive to be different but I’ve been called much worse.

Without further ado, here’s my list:

I want to drive the Bullet Mustang down I-76 so fast I travel through time and crash into Steve McQueen in a provocative position in a time period before those stalker laws took effect.

I’m far too familiar with them.

When my child whines because of a sliver, I’d like to find it without renting an electron microscope.

I want to know why semi-annual bra sales happen every other month.

Like my mom, I want to go to a turtle feed. I imagine nothing says you’re a wimp like calling yourself a “turtle hunter.” Why not wait until they hibernate and buy some expensive insulated gear so you can pluck a snoozing turtle from his sleeping frozen brood. Like a man.

Pussy.

I want boob jobs to come in really fun shapes so when I refer to them in a cute way, people can say, “Yes, you could definitely call those 'cup cakes'.”

I want the Phillies lineup molded in chocolate.

I want a pair of shoes so cute they get me laid—by a stranger.

I want to see Kim Kardashian talk a cop out of a traffic ticket on two hours of sleep and baby burp in her hair.

I want pimples to be considered accessories. And I want designer stickers I can place around them so they look like they’re intentional.

I want it to be cool to have your house filled with the aroma of cat shit. Matter-of-fact, I think we should all be more like cats and poop in a box, track litter through the house, and display our pristinely clean naked buttholes as we walk. With attitude. That’s true self-esteem.

Come to think of it, I think I’ll have my cat’s snowy white hole tattooed so he can call more attention to it. At least when he shoves it in my face, I’ll feel like I'm looking at something pricey. Or maybe I’ll get it pierced. I’ll take out the hoop only when I’m not home.

I want wrinkles to be so cool we Photoshop them in instead of out.

I want to smell like toast.

I want chocolate syrup to be considered acceptable office apparel and I want sex therapy to count for college credit.

I want Dr. Ruth nominated for sainthood.

I want a Kama Sutra app. I want it to pick the right sexual position taking in consideration the season, time of day and what my husband has eaten for dinner. Then I want it to honestly tell me whether it’s disgusting that we do it at all.

I want someone to clean out the trash in the back seat of my car. And I want that to be the person who put it there. Cue my child.

I want a messy car to be cool. I want driving a crappy car to be cool. And I think being stranded on the side of the road waiting for AAA should earn you American Express points.

I want giving a bad haircut to be punishable by law.

By court order, I want people who say mean things to take it back.

I want crime to be punishable by spanking. And I want to be the spanker. On that note, I want it to be illegal to be listed as one of People magazine’s sexiest men.

I want a winter jacket that looks like Cliff Lee so I can wear him on my body. I mean … “it” on my body.

I want cup size to be listed on baseball trading cards.

I want baby boomers to stop insulting their parents by saying 60 is the new 50. Your parents were a lot cooler than you at 60. That’s because they didn’t have to pretend they cared what you thought. The truth is, you’re still a little snot.

On that note, fuck “this” is the new “that.” And check your color wheel. Orange will never be freaking black. And you’ll still be a little snot.

I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days. Damn, when will he read my blog?

I want Charlie Manuel and Mike Schmidt to walk around Citizens Bank Park with a portable karaoke machine and sing duets with the masses. I want it broadcast on Phan-a-vision and I want the winner to get a shot at The Voice.

I want congress to be picked by a lottery.

I want Tom Verducci to write my eulogy. And in my will, I’ll denote the person who should abduct him and bring him to the funeral to do that. It might sound like he wouldn’t voluntarily do this and that is correct. That’s why you should always have a plan B.

Most of all, I want Harold Reynolds on a pair of pajamas. Or better yet, in my pajamas. Well, if I wore pajamas I’d want him in them. Note to self: Start wearing pajamas.

So that’s my list. Now that players have reported for duty, I think it’s high time I did too. Baseball is something fans enjoy and I should help them do that. And part of baseball is losing. So by the transitive property, losing should equal enjoyment.

Actually, that’s the Phillies' birthright. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the top or the bottom, as long as no one gets hurt.

Unless you’re E. L. James. Or under her.

See you at the ballpark.

~

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Read The Aliquot Sum, a novel by Cindy Falteich.
Written for the new-adult genre.
Soon to be major motion picture!


Thanks for reading! Copyright © 2015 Cindy Falteich, All rights reserved.

14 comments:

  1. I think Kevin Costner is a fan of massage parlors. Just sayin. Maybe you could tweet him?

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    1. I'm game! Do you know his Twitter handle? Are they called "handles" or am I lapsing into '80's trucker talk. Thanks for reading!

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  2. "I want cup size to be listed on baseball trading cards." You are my hero.

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    1. Kim, it just had to be said. :) Thanks for reading.

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  3. Hi Cindy, another Philly girl here. Loved your funny post and happy to meet you.

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    1. Very nice to meet you, Helene. The season is just heating up. Thanks for reading. Go Phils!

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  4. I laughed and shook my head so many times reading this! Yes!

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    1. Thanks so much for reading, Andi. Have a great time with your travels!

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  5. Oh I love your list!!! Funny, I want to smell like toast too! Thank you for the laugh -- so welcome!

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    1. You are welcome, Ruth. And thanks for reading. ;)

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  6. I'm laughing so hard at this -- and I'm a Yankee fan. Want to talk about problems? We have to take A-Rod back this year! You're welcome.

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    1. Lois, look on the bright side, at least Alex is easy on the eyes. I find it ironic that, for the Phillies at least, the guys who contributed to the last losing season all want off the team. Because of losing. I told them not to let Hunter Pence go! Thanks for reading!

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  7. As someone who purchases her Phillies tickets according to the best butt view, I can appreciate your take. Cup size on trading cards wouldn't it be about time!

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    1. How I miss Raul Ibanez for that very reason!

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