Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Regrets are What We Make of Them
First we suffer through the end of the summer, and now the world is about to end. British astronomers -- who are always among the best in the world because the British are predisposed to stare into the sky to observe the constant shifts in weather from gray to gray and spitting rain -- believe that a 2.6 billion ton asteroid may strike the earth in 2014. And if we've learned anything from history, it's that a huge, hurtling space rock will instantly wipe all life off the face of the planet, somehow sparing only Tom Arnold. I introduce the comment about Tom Arnold only to momentarily lighten the doomsaying mood and illustrate the absurdity of instant extinction by speculating that I might be outlived by someone who willingly spent moments of this precious life putting his penis inside of Roseanne Barr.
This asteroid thing is, to put it succinctly, bad news. Normally self-assured and preternaturally confident with my place in the universe, the prospect of being snuffed by an astronomer's wet dream has given me pause. I can do little else but stare out the window, waiting for the annihilation by God's death-pebble that will be visiting 11 years hence. I can't dwell on my accomplishments; there's so much left to do, and a smidge over a decade just isn't enough to get it done.
I have not yet simultaneously dominated the top five slots on the New York Times' fiction and nonfiction bestseller lists with my ambitious ten-volume cycle of semiautobiographical creative memoirs detailing my efforts to write the screenplay adaptation of my life story as told on this site.
I have placed no higher than second in ESPN's Lumberjack Games due to a tragic failing of muscle-memory each time I step on a cedar log floating in a river, suffering humiliating comparisons to Pete Sampras' inability to win on French clay.
I haven't yet had a sixsome. I once foolishly attempted to jump straight from a fivesome to a sevensome, but the delicious adventure quickly unraveled when three comely fans from a recent website signing found my explication of the difference between a "gangbang" and a "festival of sexuality" to be wanting, leaving me to yawn my way through yet another supermodel sandwich foursome.
And, perhaps most tragically, I won't live to see the sixth installment of the Indiana Jones series, laughing as my supernemesis Harrison Ford dodders about, his rheumatoid arthritis seriously impinging on his ability to whip something out of an enemy's hand.
If you need me I'll be sitting on my roof, waiting and waiting for the cruel asteroid to rob me of possibility.*