According to the Mayans – who are a pretty reliable group of people – the world will be ending Dec. 21. I have a bad habit of putting things off, but before it’s all over, I’d like to do the following stuff:
Go all in and hit an inside straight at a World Series of Poker final table.
Replace Mike Krzyzewski at Duke and bench any player who takes a charge.
Eat some Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chuck and then go to Peter Luger in Brooklyn for a porterhouse steak.
Ask a tarot card reader if the Pittsburgh Pirates are ever going to have a winning season again.
Tear down a taxpayer-funded arena or stadium and replace it with a miniature golf course/pinball arcade/arboretum.
Sit with Vin Scully at a Dodgers game and listen to him do what he’s been doing for 63 years.
Sit with Jon Miller in a San Francisco bar and listen to him impersonate Vin Scully in Japanese.
Watch ESPN’s “First Take” for 10 minutes without throwing my remote out the window, which, of course, is somewhat counter-productive other than the exercise I’d get in retrieving it.
Hit an ace against Venus Williams and then do the crab walk.
Convince my misguided alma mater, the University of Maryland, to take a stand against tail-wagging-the-dog, big-time intercollegiate athletics by dropping all of them.
Learn to cook one dish – any dish – half as well as Toni, a.k.a. She Is The One (And Then Some).
Move to Chicago and vote for Boss Tom Kane to replace Rahm Emanuel as mayor.
Move back to my hometown of Washington, D.C., and convince America to give the 600,000-plus residents there a voting representative in Congress.
Replace the Ryder Cup with Woodstock II.
Lead a grass-roots movement to build and maintain 24-hour public libraries.
Get my stepson Isaiah an athletic scholarship to a Division I school that doesn’t cheat.
(By the way, speaking of the end of the world, there are two consumer schools of thought: Some people will store up on stuff, in case they survive the impending apocalypse; others are winding down their inventory because, as my Uncle Stanislav says, “You can’t take it with you,” so there’s no reason to have seven cans of Bumble Bee chunk light tuna lying around come doomsday. Couch Slouch leans toward the latter group, plus I’m also deleting the 17 hours of “The Tim McCarver Show” on my DVR.)
Get my stepdaughter Mia one hour with Justin Bieber, but if she ends up marrying him, I’m not paying for the wedding.
Advise Jay Cutler to legally change his name to “Pick Six,” though it’s possible Trent Dilfer tried to do that in the late 1990s.
Find a homecoming-dance date for my goddaughter Alexis who doesn’t chew tobacco or play rugby.
Walk into a Boston sports bar and give a Bronx cheer.
Walk into a New York sports bar and tell the most sophisticated fans in the world they’re not that sophisticated.
Find an old-fashioned phone booth, stick a dime into the pay phone and call my mother to let her know I love her.
Be a consultant.
Go to Walden Pond, and rather than meditate, order the biggest cable TV package ever at Walden Pond, including all regional sports networks and The Sundance Channel.
Drink a PBR for breakfast without feeling guilty.
Go on “Charlie Rose” under the condition that his questions can be no longer than my answers.
Teach my dog Sapphire to fetch the morning newspaper before there’s no longer a morning newspaper.
See Blake Griffin dunk over an active volcano.
Press a crosswalk signal that makes the signal turn to “WALK” within five seconds.
Remake “Field of Dreams,” only this time the voice whispers, “If Donald Trump builds it, no one will come (not to mention it probably will go bust before it gets built).”
Survive this presidential election season.
Shift my column to Twitter, reducing my weekly writing load from 800 words to 140 characters.
Bowl a 299 game.
Ask The Slouch
Q. I watched the entire World Series of Poker Main Event final table telecast – Lon McEachern and Antonio Esfandiari are intelligent, well-spoken and telegenic poker analysts. What do you bring to the table? (J.B. Koch; Waukesha, Wis.)
A. The underbelly of the human condition.
Q. Now that David Stern is retiring, will Gary Bettman realize his life’s dream of merging the four major sports into a single corporate collective and locking out all the players with one stroke? (Glenn Springstead; Columbia, Md.)
A. Pay the man, Shirley.