Even More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up

We here at Et tu, Mr. Destructo? have but one aim every year: to pioneer new strategies and set new benchmarks in being awesome, by employing new rad dynamics. At the beginning of each year, we establish standards for our comportment and limits on the human body's ability to always be totally crushing it, and each year we surpass them.

In 2009, we smoked myrrh with Lil John and righted the centuries of wrongs created by grave-robbing by grave-donating. (The secret: little paper coffins handed out to trick-or-treaters, who then asked for coins. Thanks, kids!) In 2010, we reenacted Fox in Socks with a rescued and diseased animal, took Brittany Murphy's death virginity and created MILF day.

Indeed, if a shortcoming can be found in our ambitions for ourselves and for Mr. Destructo as a journalistic organ, it is that we may be running out of potential goals due to the shortcomings of the physical universe. May that time never come. May we press on today. May you join us or die. Can you do any less?

Even More Things I Want to Do When I Grow Up:
I'm gonna tell everybody you drink Dr. Thunder.

I want to make all steampunk clothing accessories suddenly viable working machinery. I don't care how many people are scalded with burning oil and dropped to the ground by hundreds of pounds of metal.

I want to sneak into an elementary school and hide notes in every lunch bag that read, "Your father and I are getting divorced."

Things I want settled by Vatican III: Ketchup vs. Catsup, Soda vs. Pop, Mods vs. Rockers, Jacob vs. Edward.

For one quarter of one game, I want God to replace Ben Roethlisberger's head with a fat stupid-looking potato with a beard and see if anyone notices.

I want to overturn Brown v. Board of Education and force millions of racists to ask themselves just how far they're willing to go to win the SEC Championship this year.

I want to design an alternative-fuel car that runs on patchouli and make a billion dollars. Then I'll design another that runs on contempt for patchouli and bank ten billion.

I want to install Venetian blinds on the outside of my house so the neighborhood Peeping Tom will look in on me while I stack all the meats, cheeses, and crackers from my Lunchables into one Dagwood sandwich.

I will greenlight a reality TV show called This Was Your Wonderful Life, in which we fake the deaths of "celebrities" like Judy Tenuta, show them how how the .5% of the world who can identify them are glad they died, then urge them to commit suicide.

I want to get my penis fitted for a monocle.

I want to discover the original Laffer Curve cocktail napkin and reveal to America that there weren't any graphs or calculations on it but a picture of a poor man getting fucked with a jewel-encrusted dildo.

I want to walk into a used bookstore and find a dog-eared Cliff’s Notes with my name as the title, purchase it and take it home in hopes of figuring out what my life means. But some stupid undergrad will have illegibly highlighted everything in pink, and I'll just focus on the "Analysis of Major Characters" section about my ex-girlfriend.

I want the Canadian prime minister to fix his and our problems by declaring Quebec a sovereign amnesty nation for American teapartiers and turn it into the first government ever to function on the principle of mutually punitive irony.

I want to watch a movie on a rotary TV and then blog about how much better the picture quality is.

I want to ban all Christmas carols sung by little children. From now on they can only used in methodical, sociopathic scenes in horror films in which small children murder people.

I want to hear "White Christmas" while standing in the middle of a mall food court and yell, "WHY'S IT GOTTA BE WHITE?"

I'd like to take the members of SNPP.com, who in 1995 complained about season-five episodes as signifying the "unpressidented decline" of The Simpsons, and make them watch the last five seasons of the show while rhythmically punching themselves in the crotch. Yeah, "The Itchy, Scratchy and Poochie Show" really was a piece of shit, wasn't it? Those shots they took at whiny hardcore fans of TV shows were totally out of place, weren't they? KEEP PUNCHING, SHITHEAD.

I want to wake up and have no memory of anything except the movie Memento.

I want to know how many men over 30 can't hear "Jingle Bell Rock" without thinking of fucking because the pre-internet years forced them to pause their VHS on the intro to Lethal Weapon so they could see some titty.

I want to take pictures with every single girl I know and send her a "Save the Date" that announces our marriage on September 31. They'll all think it's a typo and futilely show up at the church on September 30 or October 1 in expensive dresses. I will laugh as I cook 24 simultaneous lunches in all the quesadilla makers I registered us for.

I want to create one of those tear-off illustrated paper Page-a-Dre calenders so that there's no danger you forget about him or your dentist appointment again.

I hope to expand on Urban Meyer's initiative and return virtuous or industrious names — Honor Blackman, Miller Huggins — to sports coaching. Some suggestions:

Prudence Goodcoach
Steadman Boomer
Redoubtable Nopunts
Justice Paterno
Mindful Clockmanagment

I want to produce a film for Disney about a man trapped inside society's programming of gender binary for 20 years and call it Trans Legacy.

I want to afflict every NFL owner or GM who hired Brian Schottenheimer, Wade Phillips, Kyle Shanahan, David Gibbs or Jim Mora, Jr. with a massive benign tumor, wheel them into the O.R. and, when they ask for the surgeon, say, "This is Skip Daly. He's what happens when your surgeon fucks his wife after pulling the goalie 22 years ago. He has a B.A. in sociology from Texas A&M, but he's been chopping salads since he was eight. We're givin' him the scalpel. Get in there, Skip!" then swat Skip's ass and go cash a check.

I want to find the lost VHS tape from the early 1990s of Marge Schott on Sesame Street yelling at The Count and asking him if "that's a Jew accent" while throwing lit cigarettes into Oscar's garbage can.

I want to put on nightly showings of Pay It Forward at inner-city shelters, then end it with complimentary handouts of Greyhound tickets to L.A., boards with nails in them and maps to the stars' homes. There's going to be some collateral damage — innocents beaten, people redeeming tickets for money and getting their lives together — but eventually someone's gonna get through to the producers, screenwriters and Osment.

I want to go to a contemporary art gallery and see the artist in a dunk tank.

I want to translate The Master and Margarita the right way to show everyone that Mikhail Bulgakov is actually just Russian for "Michael Dudikoff." It turns out that the American Ninja film series is a complex allegory for the Carter-era gas crisis if Jimmy Carter were Pontius Pilate and Pontius Pilate had a white belt with a yellow stripe in Taekwondo. Elizabeth Taylor is the cat.

I wish I had a backpack with an everlasting supply of adorable stuffed bears, so every time I pull out and manage to ejaculate on the exact center of a woman's tramp stamp, I could give one to her afterward and say, "Look what I just won for you!"

I want to release every criminal on death row and have them all link hands with each other. They will think it's a show of love and solidarity across America, but it's really so I can scootch my feet on a carpet and shock the whole chain with static electricity. Death's too good for them.

I want to see a leaked night-vision celebrity video where a starlet shows us the parts of her body covered in morgellons.

I want to use a food time machine to grab a midwestern American of average intelligence from only 20 years ago, drive him down a suburban strip past a Wendy's sign reading, "Try the new Asiago Chicken Club!" and watch his mind wrestle with it before he gives up and mutters something like, "Goddamn Japanese buying everything these days."

I want to pull on a library book to accidentally reveal a secret passageway, a hidden room and Dr. James Naismith sitting on an upside-down peach basket, clapping slowly as he watches Lebron James' "The Decision."

Every time I see a car with a Palin/Teaparty/Nobama/Don't Tread on Me bumper sticker, I want to be able to use the power of my mind to slap an oversized bumper sticker over it reading: "America has a communist fifth-column organization. It tells you what to learn, do, wear, sleep and eat. They make everybody dress alike and wait in long lines. It's called the military, and they expect you to die."

I want to zipline every fucking place I go, even if it's uphill.

I want to see a WWE elimination match pitting The The against The Strokes, The Hives, The White Stripes, The Killers, The Vines and Mr. Mr., where every defeat enables them to harness an opponents' article or salutational powers, until they are known only as Mr. Mr. The The The The The The The.

I want to sign Lance Armstrong to an endorsement deal for Neuticles.

I want to get a bunch of people with Asperger's to sit in a room and watch all five seasons of Bones with breaks only for sleeping and the bathroom until all of them throw up their hands in disgust and say, "Why doesn't she understand that Angel loves her, and why doesn't she tell Angel she loves him?" and then I'll say, "BECAUSE SHE HAS ASPERGER'S" and then kick all their asses out on the street with a brochure called "HOW TO BE COOL AND NORMAL: Don't Do What Temperance Brennan Does and Don't Sound Similar to Her and Also Don't Like Her at All Because She Fucking Sucks."

I want to takeover a chicken breeding facility that is run as a public trust. The headline will read "Cock Coup Co-Opts County Operated Coop."

I want to go through the hospital and tap on the glass of every room with a woman with a newborn in it and lewdly mouth "MILF" and point at her and then do crotch chops until the orderly chases me off again.

I want someone to open their latest copy of Lapham's Quarterly and—boom, there it is: 150 pages of glossy and lovingly rendered full-color shots of Katrina vanden Heuvel, Benjamin Netanyahu, Taylor Swift, Don Cheadle, ESPN's NHL Tonight commentator Barry Melrose and me, playing quarters.

I want to jump over the Tallahatchee Bridge and then find anybody still alive who's related to Billy Joe McAllister and kick the shit out of them.

I want to build a racial time machine so that everyone falling all over themselves to make an "It Gets Better Video" can return to 1964 to start working on making some for black people because, holy shit, we're on a 46-year backlog and already nearly a month into #47.

I will force Kelly McGillis to set the Guinness world record for most consecutive hours spent playing the bassline to Berlin's "Take My Breath Away." She will also do this while dressed all Amish again.

I will contract with Death to appear at the bedside of all World of Warcraft players to bargain over more time on earth. After forcing them to watch their entire gaming history, in real time — no image of the screen, just their backs hunched over desks — they will have two choices:

• Those who promise never to game again will be killed instantly to progress to another plane of existence.
• Those who admit that they would use an extended lease on life to game more will live another 100 years in the body of a butch woman P.E. coach.

I want to cast Daniel Schorr, Dinah Shore and Toots Shor to bring a little class to the 2011-2012 season of Jersey Shore. I figure we just open up the caskets and shoot a half an hour of time lapse. The ad campaign?—"Moar Boar Wants Moar S/c/h/o/r/r/e."

Like Stephanie Meyer, I want to transform a traditional horror genre into a epic love story. This time, Triffids.

I want to buy my father a restored 1914 Stutz Bearcat with the entire front console ripped out and replaced with a padded steering wheel (with airbag) and a giant LCD satellite radio display, with all but the country and conservative radio stations parentally locked out, to thank him for all those 24-hour periods during which he promised to pay for college and then beat the crap out of me.

I want an amendment banning gay marriage. I have nothing against homosexuality; I just want to avoid the possibility of entering a common law marriage with my freeloading college roommate "Squiggy."

I want to take Elizabeth Edwards to the promised land. You know how.

Next to every "My heart starts beating at 14 days!" highway billboard of a fetus, I want to post a billboard that shows a picture of a bright-eyed Iraqi boy reading, "My name is Fahd. My heart was beating for 10 years. It was stopped by a JDAM that killed 0 terrorists and cost $23,000 in taxpayer money. That's 2,300 all-you-can-eat dinners at Sonny's Real Pit BBQ."

I want to see Sarah Palin's House from Russia while she's staring absentmindedly out the kitchen window, middle finger two knuckles deep in the right nostril.

I want to buy a 45-minute CD of down-tempo saxophone and guitar solos, play it at the end of parties and stand and sway back and forth with my arms around someone, waving, so it triggers the primitive Saturday Night Live-regions of my guests' brains, signaling that it's time to leave.

I want to make a gritty Prime Suspect-like British murder drama that begins with some spotty police constable pulling the trousers off a corpse to reveal underpants stuffed with fresh raw scallops and squawking, "It's jus' loike ool the others, guv!"

I want to cut the head off a rabbit and start painting triangles and trees on the walls next to people who pray over their meals in restaurants.

I want to go to a sports bar for 50-cent wing night and order just one buffalo wing at kickoff, savoring it for all four quarters before sneaking out at the two-minute warning and stiffing my waitress.

I want to know what sort of liability they faced that they felt the need to have Lipps Incorporated.

I want to be in charge of lighting a gay porno entitled Oppenhammer, wherein America's Friends of Dorothy collaborate on "The Man Had 'Em Project" to enable the eponymous character to go straight-to-the-A-bomb on 30,000 people in under a second and send 'em all "over the rainbow."

I want to see MILF Day recognized as a holiday, while a legend grows around it, wherein I am depicted as the opposite of Santa: on one day of the year, I stay home and don't go up your mom's chimney.

By this time next year, I pledge to have added at least 200 more images to my current total of 25 pages of Google Image Search results exclusively from Et tu, Mr. Destructo? for the exact phrase, "Murder My Balls."