Bucket or Fuck It?

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Suggested Audio Bucket List:

[1] The Bee Gees “Jive Talkin”
[2] Bananarama “Venus”
[3] Goldfrapp “Ooh La La”
[4] Kings of Leon “The Bucket”

 

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I’m always fascinated to learn the viewpoints of others. Whether or not their panorama tallies up with my own is irrelevant; I just like hearing how the other half lives and taking notes. Recently I happened across an article in a magazine I would never ordinarily thumb through and found myself a doozy. The publication was Cosmopolitan and it is essentially a glossy fashion rag for women. I was in the waiting room of my local surgery at the time and options were scant as they generally are for male visitors. Housekeeping, gardening tips, fashion – that’s pretty much your options there and, just once, I’d love to rifle through the meager pile and unearth a vintage Fangoria. Of course, the likeliness of this happening is equivalent to that of Donald Trump encouraging world peace if he is elected into office. It just ain’t gonna happen. Now I love the color green anywhere else than my fingers, am no longer a homeowner, and never particularly adhered to what’s hot and not in the fashion world so it was looking like I was out of luck and doomed to inspect the usual grim medical paraphernalia to pass the time. However, the thing about women’s fashion magazines and, indeed, magazines in general, is that there’s a tendency to throw in the odd pictorial just to fill some column inches.

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Needless to say I was seduced by whichever strategically placed cover vixen was pouting my way and ventured inside for what would be potentially the fastest ever cover-to-cover inspection since Johnny Five read a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet while waiting for Steve Guttenberg to finish his dump. I actually have no recollection of who had made the grade on this particular month so, for the purpose of this exercise and my own selfish pleasure, let’s just say it was Kaley Cuoco. It wasn’t of course but this is my story dagnabbit and I’m the one working my fingers to the bone to bring you good people the scoop. Let us also assume that she had just vacated the shower and not fully dried herself off yet. Either that or it was a particularly muggy day when she shot. It also stands to reason that she would grow hungry waiting for the umpteenth picture to be snapped and those kind folk over at Cosmo had ordered in some finger food to keep her growling, glistening, toned, delicious tummy at bay. Problem is that Cuoco’s services don’t come cheap thus there was only enough in the budget for wieners all round. Given Kaley’s hectic schedule, it made only sense that she’d gobble one down on the go.

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Dang, that girl is method. How kind of her to lick her lips and gaze up at us in the same manner Monica Lewinsky did when sliding her tongue into Mr. President’s urethra. That’s dedication for you right there. I spent a good fifteen minutes searching for a gif that charted the hot mustard as it made its drizzling descent into her chin dimple but, alas, no dice. Anyhoots, I’m digressing but, the fact remains, that I was that half-eaten hot dog and powerless to resist further perusal. Excitedly I journeyed inside and was met by the customary morsel of marketing. Actually, this wasn’t so much a morsel as the ass-end of a comet hurtling towards my orbs with intent to soundly obliterate and accounted for around 50% of the overall column space. That said, there were sufficient images to keep my mind occupied for around a minute and, with my name apparently still no closer to being called, I decided to do the unthinkable. I know what a fair few of you are thinking right now and that’s my fault for the whole wiener-gate deal. I may be an exhibitionist but pulling out one’s junk in a doctor’s surgery and thrashing it like Red Rum on the final straight is a flash too far for even this shameless masturbator. It seemed far more shrewd to catch up on a little light reading and I held out little hope of staving off the inevitable self-induced coma by around the third stanza. Then something inexplicable occurred.

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No the desk clerk didn’t unbutton her blouse, slip her index finger in the side of her mouth, and pant “take me on the photocopier and set it to mass print”. Please remove those minds from the gutter as she was in her mid-sixties, smelt of antiseptic, and resembled my seventh grade home economics tutor way too closely for this fantasy to become fulfilling and I’m trying to tell a story here. You guys are awful, okay then, for the purpose of spicing up the narrative, it may or may not have been mid-thirties, the scent I discerned may or may not have been hot wax, and we may or may not have printed fifty identical copies of her rump loin as I gave it the old Thanksgiving treatment. Then her associate entered the waiting room, spotted us making our sweet sweat, and jerked my hot salsa into a waste paper basket. You happy now? Yes she was dressed as an equestrian and that was a riding crop tucked down her stocking top. What do you people want from me? I give you my blood, my sweat, and even my tears but it always has to come back to semen. It’s a good job I’m feeling charitable. Here, I shall even donate a visual just because that’s the kind of stand up guy I am.

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Not that one. That’s an altogether different memoir. There were two of them remember and I believe their names were Lacey and Stacey.

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Again I believe I may be able to read those minds. Doesn’t Lucky Luke have a glorious mane? You wait ’til they introduce the sugar cubes. Anyhoots, this is all by the bye as the real revelation here came from within my source material and not the back paddocks of two evidently ill-equipped stable hands. I unwittingly stumbled across an article by a popular female disc (not cock) jockey by the name of Lauren Laverne called Bye, Bye, Bucket List and it instantly caught my eye considering I was half expecting being led out the rear of the building and shot in the back of the skull after my check-up. As a matter of fact, I even went as far as compiling my own ten-strong Bucket List last year when I first suspected the clouds may be preparing to close in and found the experience somewhat liberating. Judging by the title, it seemed as though Laverne had her own take on this closing wish-list and I was as curious as a badger to see what that might be. I can feel a thousand eyes burning into me in unison as we speak so, to keep the wolves at bay, I feel duty informed to recount the epic space battle that was playing out around me. There had to be at least thirty of them, aliens from another zip code entirely, and fast wiping out Earth’s last known survivors in the lobby space.

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These Martians were all of the female persuasion of course, as were the rebel alliance they were setting their phasers to stun. For additional intrigue, they blew up a paddling pool, filled it to half capacity with sand imported from Mauritius, poured in a keg of gloopy honey, and removed each other’s bikini tops, before thrashing about wildly and in slow motion. The fact that this coincided with Goldfrapp’s Ooh La La playing on the radio was purely happy accident and the pink bubblegum happened to be the ideal parting gift for visits to this particular G.P. so there was nothing untoward about their cheek dimples either. For as much as this was a bubblicious blossom to behold, I have never been one for taking sides in matters that don’t concern me until the bottoms come off, thus I kept my nose firmly in the good book and investigated Laverne’s article further. No really I did. Okay, I may have glanced up on the odd isolated occasion but only because I’d never seen a pair of green bosoms before and I really wasn’t convinced by the coloration of their areolae. You tell me, do they look a little septic to you?

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Regardless of the hero taking a peek that he is very much within his rights to grab, I soon found myself somewhat invested in this printed rant and have even plucked out a quote just to shore up the tone some and alleviate our sensory banks of those seemingly curdling nipples. “The problem with a bucket list is that it looks at life from the outside in, like existence is an Instagram account” lodged itself instantly in my hippocampus as I read on in steeped fascination. Basically, Ms. Laverne had decided that the age-old tradition of Bucket Lists is flawed in the extreme and not worth the pail it is placed in. For the record, while I get where she is going with this, I’m still firmly in the Pro-Bucket brigade and that is not subject to change any time soon. Had Nicholson and Freeman not ignored their doctor’s advice, then they would have eventually grown tired of chess and been left steadily eroding in a cancer wing while comparing bodily gases for their only daily high-points. Besides, at no point did I spot either man uploading pics of their Great Wall of China motorcycle expedition to their Instagram accounts. It mattered not that I didn’t share her standpoint as she made some decent points and made them well. And yes she was only wearing skimpy lingerie, sprawled out suggestively on a mink rug, and surrounded by vintage vinyl. Suit yourself, I’ll root through for some evidence.

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What do you mean “that’s not her even her body”? Are you suggesting that this image has been falsified? I have to say that I’m deeply hurt that you believe I would stoop so low on behalf of the tone but, looking at it a little closer, she does resemble a Stepford Wife just a smidgen. Okay you’ve got me, it may not be 100% authentic but there wasn’t sufficient time to match up the skin tone as, in case you haven’t noticed, there appears to be a hole in those buckets and that means we’re currently letting in rather a lot of water. Indeed, I just saw Rose DeWitt Bukater float past on a slab of drift wood and she’s having a helluva time getting that whistle to rasp. Alas, any holiday snaps were sunk with HMS Titanic but I did manage to find one particular oil painting in the captain’s quarters.

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Notice how Jack Dawson had absolutely no intention of placing crayon to canvas and it appears that it has just dawned on Rose so he’d better scribble something fast or he’s well and truly rumbled. What I’m trying to say, in my own roundabout way, is that I was digging Laverne’s take on the whole Bucket List debate. In her humble opinion, it is far better to recall one’s lifetime successes than do shit just to please an audience. I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment but that doesn’t mean I’ll be throwing my bucket overboard any time soon. Should I arrive at my pre-determined twilight without having leapt from an airplane at 10,000 feet then you’re darn tooting I’m going to take that leap. Granted, I may now wait until three seconds from human omelette time to release that pull cord, but I’m not letting a small thing like incoming death stop me from crossing that one off the agenda. That said, she supplied my thought food, and there’s no more depressing place to be nil by mouth than a doctor’s surgery. One thing was for damn positive, it sure as shit beat perusing through in-bloom geraniums. I’ll never shrug away anything that gets these neurons motoring.

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So what did I learn from my trip to the doctor’s surgery? I now know the importance of ensuring that the photocopier is well stocked up, have added a pretty mean impression of a thoroughbred pony to my oeuvre, will never again allow the pantry to run short on either honey or sand, know what really went on aboard the Titanic before the iceberg hit, and have an overwhelming urge to purchase Season Five of The Big Bang Theory just so I can leer at Kaley Cuoco some more and get my very finest geek chic down to pat. Moreover, I’m aware that Bucket Lists aren’t for everyone. I think I’ll strike a balance when the time arrives, look back on a lifetime of memories and remember that it isn’t too late to reach for some fresh ones just to finish strongly. Besides, I haven’t posted to Instagram since I realized that Facebook and Twitter double-teamed me. Thus I couldn’t bring myself to say fuck it to the bucket. Actually, that does kind of roll off the tongue, and has inspired me to add another wish to my list. I plan to make every last statement as seductive as humanly possible when emptying the Crimson Quill for the final time. Here’s one for good measure. I’m a wussy for pussy. I ask that you refrain from pointing the finger of shame as you just read this shit. Thank the heavens above for marketing huh?

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