“Live each day as if it were your last,” the final earthly advice my father ever gave me. It might not have been, had I succeeded in my attempts to dislodge the complimentary cookie from his trachea, but one can only do so much after consuming all of that MSG. I choose to blame the EMT, whose spring roll I ate when he left to go answer a call rendered my fingers too greasy to get a strong Heimlich grip.
I try not to think too much about that fateful night. It gives me a mean hankering for General Tso’s chicken, and I’d hate to have agita while I’m taking the small piece of paper my father ultimately flailed in my general direction to heart. There’s no time for dwelling in the past, especially not with my schedule. I tried fitting it in between pleasuring a mermaid and establishing a true democracy, but once I figured out those things didn’t exist, I decided to use the ten-minute block I allotted them for explaining to people my Last Day Itinerary. You’re bound to get some funny looks when you’re living life to the fullest. Even more so if it entails there being no tomorrow—or any day after, for that matter.
Last Day Itinerary
5:45 AM: Wake up. Set video camera up on a tripod.
I thought it might be nice to record the sunrise, this way I can watch it at a reasonable hour. I’m not leaving behind a ton of money, so maybe my family can sell the footage to one of those karaoke joints I used to frequently turn down invitations to.
5:49 AM: Use restroom. Go back to sleep.
Considering how much I have planned, it’s very important that I’m well-rested. Plus, I’d like to get the most out of my investment in that memory foam mattress. It cost the better part of the money I inherited from my father, but I still think it was totally worth the $300—it’s the same kind NASA astronauts use when they’re boinking mistresses in Cape Canaveral.
6:01 AM: Wake up. Use restroom.
You don’t need an alarm clock when you have an active bladder, but it is a useful thing to have around. The beeping noise serves as a nice transition from the recurring nightmare I have where the Muppet Beaker slices my face off to wear as his own, to the reality of everyday life, where I just look an awful lot like him.
6:53 AM: Consider calling a urologist. Make breakfast.
I used to eat a complete and balanced breakfast, but now that I’m in a crunch for time—I’ll just go for the side represented by the most lovable cartoon mascot.
7:10 AM: Watch the previously-recorded sunrise.
As long as a marathon of “The Bernie Mac Show” isn’t running, this should only take a few minutes, America.
11:00 AM: Call friends and family to say goodbye.
If there’s anything that warrants being taken out to lunch, it’s dying soon. I think I’ll skip the peach cobbler, though. If there’s anything that warrants your grave being spat on, it’s ordering dessert on someone else’s dime—especially when they needed to be back at work fifteen minutes beforehand.
14:37: Give the 24-hour clock a try.
Now that I am completely free of inhibitions, there isn’t anything I’m not game for.
3:12 PM: Call enemies and family members who refused to pay for your lunch to air your final grievances.
There’s no better way to work up an appetite than ranting and raving. Well, besides not eating.
5:02 PM: Learn to speak a foreign language. Go skydiving.
It’s a long jump, so it helps to be able yell things at the top of your lungs in a couple of different tongues. I can imagine most of the skydiving guides in the States are tired of hearing the boring old English “Ahhh!” by now.
6:17 PM: Stare solemnly at a duck-filled pond as the sun sets.
If that doesn’t get me laid, I’ll pay a visit to an old high school girlfriend that lives nearby. The scent of down makes her go wild with lust. I can only hope my violent sneezing fits don’t wake her husband up. It’s somewhat of a turnoff.
7:03 PM: Eat a dinner fit for an archduke.
I don’t want an extra helping of blood pudding weighing me down and keeping me from ascension. Especially since those unpaid parking tickets and unfortunate selling the vital organs of drifters to get through college incident already have the deck stacked against me.
8:59 PM: Wrestle with thoughts, younger brother Jimmy.
Whoever pins me first gets to join me for ice cream.
11:35 PM: Pour a glass of whiskey, grab a cigar, sit down in my favorite recliner, and wait for Death to come take me away.
I’ll probably wait to light the cigar until I know for sure that it’s over, as I’ve been burned before.