I thought I might give you a heads up about what my retirement party should look like. You’ll thank me later when I retire and you’re well-prepared. There’s no futzing around with emails to colleagues and friends about what the party should look like. Who wants that? All the headaches of who should pay need to be worked out well before I’m ready to stop working. And you might set up a committee to decide what kinds of drinks should be served.
Full bar is what I’m thinking. Not that the drinks are so important, but a full bar means you can concoct all sorts of goofy drinks in my honor, which almost never happens anymore. The last time someone concocted a goofy drink in my honor was, what, back in the ‘80s? “The Wintry Micks” they called it, naming it after me and a couple of other Irish guys, due to all the Irish liquor in the drink, and it became enormously popular among people who liked a Bushmills and Jameson mashup, with a jigger of Baileys and a shot of Murphy’s, steeped in wild-caught sleet and then flash-frozen.
Of course, they got in some trouble with the name later in life and lost it all. Ah, the vagaries of drinks-naming.
But my retirement party really should have that kind of can-do drinks-naming attitude. People should be given the opportunity to creatively name drinks after me, which will live on well-past my 150 years (or so) of life. Oh, sure, my “life” might be only a few remaining cells of tissue attached to a concoction of plastic, wires, microchips and so on, but in the future that will be all that’s needed, and the public will think it’s really hot.
I’d also like a hot tray of baked ziti.
Why is it that every Super Bowl has to be played on a Sunday?
How do you think that makes other days of the week feel? Mondays and Tuesdays must be crushed! Knowing that they have no chance, which just kills them.
Wednesdays figure, well, given their status as “hump days,” Roger Goodell might at some point get a soft spot for Wednesday, that ol’ galoot, and have Super Bowls staged right in the middle of the work week (no chance).
Thursdays figure, come on! There is a Thursday night game virtually every week. Let’s go all-in and have a Thursday Super Bowl.
Fridays say: Two days to recover = the most sensible plan off all.
Saturdays say: Best to have a full day to prep. Can’t do that while we’re at work, now can we, Mr Big Shot Friday?
My personal gripe with Super Sunday: tired Monday.
Not that I’ll be watching.
What ever became of that addition to my estate, which I had loudly and boisterously claimed I was going to have constructed to increase the size of my house by about a quarter, and make room for a regulation-size snooker table?
Thanks very much for asking. It’s done!
OK, not exactly. We don’t actually have a finished floor yet, or paint, electrical outlets that work, or light fixtures. And I did not succeed in my quest to have fainting couches installed in each room (I’m very prone to fainting, or at least needing a nap). The rest of my family seems to think fainting couches are a frivolous waste of our hard-earned dollars (!!).
What’s more incredible than no fainting couches in a manor as stately and graciously appointed as mine is that no one can figure out where to put the TV.
I know what you’re thinking: “Put it in the TV room.” What, are you nearly 55 years old or something? Do you think this is 1975 and your parents are putting on an addition? Back then people carved out space for their televisions and called them “tv rooms,” but nowadays they call “home theaters.”
But, yeah, we forgot to include one of those as well.
I recently put an ad in the paper for someone to step up and produce one of those startlingly avant-garde, live theatrical experiences that no one can understand, about a mysterious, dark world that exists in some strange alternate reality, wherein the United States of America is still most powerful country on the globe but, alas, its duly elected leader is a complete and utter clown.
Yes, I know, sounds entirely far-fetched, as many an avant-garde producer of experimental theater has told me over cocktails in chic Manhattan eateries, but I always remind them that the world I’m asking them to create is not one that could ever actually exist on earth. The numbskull in charge of the US in this alternate reality is such a boob that, in the “real world,” he would never be elected even to some obscure county seat, like the Noxious Weed Council, let alone become president of the greatest country in the alternate world. Too infantile. Too crass.
Like, for example, he has examined all the available evidence and has concluded that the best course of action is to increase production of coal while lowering clean air and clean water standards. Because, to hell with cleanliness.
Personally, I’m all for rolling back clean standards of all sorts. I think much of the world is way too clean anyway, and the regulation continuum that supports this over-cleanliness is killing this country’s competitiveness.
OK, maybe this concept is a little too far-fetched for theater-goers to suspend their disbelief about, but it’s exactly the kind of asininity that alternate realities tend to spawn, and it’s this dark and brooding world I’m hoping someone out there is willing to spend a lot of time and money spinning into a completely weird, experimental, theatrical LSD trip that is so confounding that audience members run for the exits, frightened by what they see and demanding normalcy, even if it means the normalcy of the 1980s, when people like Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush were in office.
Now that’s strange.