The Bucket List
I mentioned in the 12 Step Programme that I have a bucket list.  For those of you without cable access, or with your heads up your asses – a bucket list is a list of things that you need to do before you kick the bucket.  (You know, pass on, croak, expire, feed the worms... die and decompose.)

I’ve done a lot of the stuff on my bucket list.  I have been the subject of a police chase that involved a helicopter and roadblocks (dear mr plod, the motorcycle review has no idea who this man is, he has hacked our site and is randomly submitting articles... we don’t know how to delete them... honest! Ed.).  Big tick there. I have parachuted and  Bungy jumped.  Tick, and tick.  I’ve done 190 Mph...  On the way to work (Officer... see above, honest. Ed.). Tick.  I’ve ridden dream bikes, and I own two of the 12 bikes that I would sell your granny to own (I already sold mine... for a Jawa, sell your own. Ed.).  Tick.  I’ve travelled and visited some really fucked up places; been shot at three times, flown a plane inverted... Hell  I’ve gotten laid a couple of times.   I’ve driven a Lamborghini Diablo around a racetrack in the wet, sideways (ok so your life is cooler than ours... shut up! Ed.).

But, the troubling thing about the bucket list is all the stuff that’s not on it, and that I have no desire to do.  Being President for a day would suck.  Being a billionaire would be even worse.  Even flying an F14 Tomcat on full afterburner, buzzing the tower, isn’t on the list.  Funny enough, getting a wife and maybe some kids is on the list.  Fucking Paris Hilton and her dumb assed sister isn’t on the list.  Is it a product of getting older that the fantasy stuff from being a kid gets left behind with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the myth of the perfect woman?

What makes this worse is that as a biker, time for me on this planet is statistically likely to be shorter than Joe Public, driving his useless Prius and boning his frumpy accountant wife. So, because I’m brighter than Joe, I have a bucket list for all the drama I’m going to create after I kick the bucket.  And don’t for a second think that I’m being morbid – it’s a fact that sooner or later each of us is going to watch grass grow from the wrong direction.

My Post-Bucket, Bucket List:
•    Haunt the shit out of the IRS.
•    Have the biggest biker turnout at my funeral, and everyone better rev the shit out of their motors until valves are poking out of the top of the motor in a fitting salute to me.
•    Go have a conversation with God about his useless sense of humour.  I mean... come on... women and PMS give me a break!
•    Go skydiving without a parachute.  As an angel, I’ll have wings. 
•    I will so fucking be an angel.
•    Give the worms food poisoning.
•    Look up Elvis and high five the dude (and share a pizza? Ed.).
•    Spy on my girlfriend, and when she’s with the next one, strike fear and impotence into the sad fuck.
•    Look up Michael Jackson and tell him my MJ jokes.
•    Find a solution to world peace, and solve global warming (I can do that now... just give me a big enough gun 5 billion to top off divided by... say 20 years... hmmm... nearly 8 people per second... minus sleeping time... best make it a BIG gun. Ed.).
•    Finally get a decent nights sleep.

It’s lame, but you gotta be organised, right?
MadBikeBoy.