The Bucket List of Franklin T. American

As everyone knows, America will soon be seeing a weird, head-shaven Jack Nicholson that is 60 ft. tall. Why? Because Rob Reiner is jonesin' to pull at your heartstrings! The plot of the film is two Academy Award winners decide to have a 90-minute montage of doing awesome things that you'll probably never do in your worthless, pathetic, meaningless life. Heart-warming!

The paparazzo and other various inter-journalists here at This Site have gone deep undercover to get the actual bucket lists for This Site founder, Franklin T. American. So, what does this internet legend want to do before he gets killed by a bucket? (or whatever that phrase is)

My Bucket List

by FRANKLIN T. AMERICAN

Now, I don't wanna do all the cliche stuff. Ya know, stuff like "go see pyramids" or "go skydiving" or "reconcile with estranged family members" or "give all of my money to Ron Paul." No no no no no! I got bigger plans than that. Huge plans. Plans that'll make other people's plans look paltry and stupid in comparison.

1. Finally accept that money transfer from that assassinated Colonel's daughter who inherited $15 million dollars in Nigeria. I mean, she went to a lot of trouble and chose ME of all the billions of people on this Earth to help her, and wants to give me a percentage. It's about time I bit the silver bullet and took the gravy train to Easy Street.

2. With my newfound fortune, invest heavily in stem cell research. With whatever funds I have left, invest heavily in voodoo. If anything remains after, give more to the voodoo people.

3. Combine stem cells with voodoo witch doctor know-how. Surely this will cure my incurable illness and grant me immortality. Right?

4. With newfound immortality, take care of all that Darfur stuff. Not sure exactly what needs taking care of, but something must be done! VIVA LE QUEBEC!

5. With newfound Congressional Medal of Honor, hock newfound Congressional Medal of Honor at local pawn shop. Spend the rest of the money on re-building Darfur or repopulating it or whatever they need. Nigeria gave me so so much, it's really the least I can do.

6. Become President of America. Run around naked all day, roll famous literary works into cigars, and appoint the homeless as Supreme Court Justices. YOU THINK YOU CAN STOP THE IMMORTAL FRANKLIN T. AMERICAN, AMERICA?! YOU ARE MISTAKEN! ALL BOW BEFORE ME!

7. Quell the resulting rebellions, riots, and shopping sprees by playing the film Air Force One dubbed in French all day long on every single television channel until America is bored into submission. I CONTROL YOU NOW AMERICA!

8. Force all American civilians into forced servitude and force them to build giant pyramids in my honor and an unstoppable army of robots dressed like ballerinas so that when the army of robots attacks other countries, those countries will be totally embarassed when they lose to ballerina-bots. ALL SHALL FALL UNDER MY RULE!

9. Spend quality time with family.

10. Entomb myself in ceremonial pyramid, once madness and paranoia have overtaken my already overstressed, fragile mind. Bring only loyal servants to spend eternity with me in the bowels of the great structures built on the sweat and blood of slaves. THE SCURGE FRANKLIN T. AMERICAN SHALL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN!

Beyond D.Y.S.T.O.P.I.A.

The year was 2109.

The Supreme Leadership Council of The Government had just ruled a new decree, which was broadcast to the whole world via GovernmentVision during Jorgatootooberg's favorite Government-prescribed program, Government Propoganda.

The new decree was this:

"ALL BOOKS ARE TO BE BURNED AND BANNED! IN THAT ORDER!"

Jorgatootooberg spat out his Mood-Drink beverage, which now contained over 20% more mood-altering chemicals than before. As he cleaned up the puddle which lay on his perfectly smooth, gray floor, he could not look away from the television screen: partially because it had long ago been decreed than all civilians watch each and every second of any Government-prescribed programming, but mostly because this decree seemed particularly important to himself.

Jorgatootooberg was a librarian.

"Man, the boss probably isn't gonna like this," muttered Jorgatootooberg to himself as he tossed the moist paper towel into the trash-incinerator.

As soon as Government Propoganda ended, Jorgatootooberg heard a knock at his door.

"I'm probably not gonna like this."

With a small explosion, the door was demolished. Jorgatootooberg flew backwards and hit against his smooth, gray wall. As he tried to get up while grasping the back of his head, which had taken the brunt of the crash, he heard what every civilian fears:

"THIS IS FACELESS DYSTOPIC SECURITY." Oh crap, thought Jorgatootooberg. "ONE VERNON JORGATOOTOOBERG, CIVILIAN NUMBER 3341623453212359, BY DECREE OF THE SUPREME LEADERSHIP COUNCIL, YOU HAVE BEEN DEEMED OBSOLETE. YOUR TRIAL AND EXECUTION DATE HAVE BEEN SET. YOU WILL APPEAR IN DYSTOPIC JUDGMENT COURT IN EXACTLY ONE HOUR."

"Um, court and execution date?" asked Jorgatootooberg rather sheepishly. "Wouldn't that mean that my guilt is sort of a foregone conclusion? What's the point of a trial if you guys have already determined me to be-"

"YOU MAY SPEAK AND PLEAD YOUR CASE AT THE APPROPRIATE TIME - WHEN IN THE LIQUIDATION CHAIR."

"The liquidation chair?"

Before he could say another word, Jorgatootooberg was hit by about five darts, and passed out for exactly one hour.

When he woke up, dazed and his head still throbbing, Jorgatootooberg found himself strapped into a strange gray, metallic chair. Really, that wasn't very strange, because in the dystopic future of 2109, all chairs were metallic and gray and forced you to be strapped into them in the case of a nuclear explosion or earthquake, both of which happened on a weekly basis. What was truly strange about this particular chair is that there were syringes filled with mysterious chemicals on all sides - all poised to be injected into various parts of Jorgatootooberg.

"Are you Vernon Jorgatootooberg, civilian?" asked a man atop a high podium about twenty feet away from Jorgatootooberg.

"Um, yes. Who are you?"

"I am Judgment Officer Brown and I am asking the questions here!"

"Sorry."

"Are you...a librarian?!"

"Yes. Well, I was, I guess. I mean, that's all illegal now, right?"

"Ah-HA! So you admit to illegal activity and being part of an obsolete profession! DEATH BY LIQUIDATION IT IS!"

"Whoa! Whoa! Hold on a sec, man! I was told my profession was phased out 45 minutes before I was arrested. I haven't even been to work since!"

"Ahhhhh, very clever, Jorgatootooberg. But, as you should know, all new decrees are deemed retroactive, meaning that if they had ever been broken in the past or the future, you are guilty!"

Jorgatootooberg furrowed his brow.

"What the hell are you talking about? And - wait, hold on again. Why are you guys making books illegal?"

"Books can contain ideals and philosophies counterintuitive to the teachings of the Government! They are dens for chaos and thought and not following conformity and paper cuts!"

"Yeah, but they can also contain tons of information. I mean, I got a brother who works in one of the Uranium Mines on Alpha 5 Gamma. He learned how to do his profession via books. If you burn all the books, how will people learn anything?"

"Books have been banned, Mr. Jorgatootooberg. As has 'information' and 'learning.' Ha! It amuses me how you foolishly cling to the past while the future is glaring at you in the eye!"

"The future? You're going to liquidate me or something for no reason."

"Information and learning are capable of cultivating free thought and not taking Mood-Lite pills and reading books and not always screaming and non-conformity! Disgusting things!"

"So...all writing is banned too?"

"ALL WRITING IS BANNED! ALL READING IS BANNED!"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"You are the stupid one, Jorgatootooberg. And you will soon be liquidated for it."

Jorgatootooberg gave pleading looks at the two Faceless Dystopic Security Guards who stood at the base of the extremely large podium. All seemed to be lost, when an idea occured to Jorgatootooberg.

"Um," began Jorgatootooberg. "I'm assuming I'm probably guilty. So could you just read off the charges against me and just tell me how guilty I am?"

"Naturally," replied Judge Brown with a cruel and malicious smile. He picked up the piece of paper that was lying on his desk. "You have been charged with being a librarian - an obsolete profession of no use to the Government, with dealing with books instead of burning them, and with having a ridiculous last name that completely defies conformity. And this court finds you-"

The two Faceless Dystopic Security Guards had climbed up the podium and had thrown handcuffs on Judge Brown.

"What are you two doing? I am a Judge for the Government!"

"YOU HAVE READ SOMETHING IN PLAIN SIGHT OF GOVERNMENT OFFICERS. YOU ARE IN CLEAR VIOLATION OF ANY AND ALL RULINGS AND DECREES OF THE GOVERNMENT AND WILL BE PUT INTO IMMEDIATE LIQUIDATION."

"What?! No! NO! It cannot be!"

His pitiful screams continued as the two guards dragged him into another room, which probably would look exactly like the room Jorgatootooberg was in. But then again, pretty much all rooms in the dystopic future looked exactly the same, so it wouldn't be too big of a deal.

Jorgatootooberg smiled. He had won, sorta. But then he realized that he was trapped inside of the court room, which now had not Judgment Officer to maintain it. No one would find him until a new officer had been appointed.

And the only person who can appoint a new officer? The old one.

"Crap," muttered Jorgatootooberg.

Excerpts From The Lost Mitchell Report

REPORT TO THE COMMISSIONER OF BASEBALL
OF AN INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATION INTO
THE ILLEGAL USE OF ANGELS AND OTHER
PERFORMANCE ENHANCING HEAVENLY BODIES
BY PLAYERS IN MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL

GEORGE J. MITCHELL

DLA PIPER US LLP

December 13, 2007

(from page 22)

...

The most egregious offender of this highly controversial and well-hidden performance enhancement is, ironically, the 1994 California Angels, playing in Anaheim. Under the management of George Knox, noted Danny Glover-impersonator, the team used several angels (beings serving the Almighty God) to manipulate and bend the rules and plays of several games in their favor. One particularly outlandish example involved the foul post seemingly moving on its own accord so that an intended foul ball turned into a home run.

Sports fans and analysts spent weeks marvelling at the supposed "luck" of that particular moment and several others (such as sliding far past the bounds of what modern physics would allow), but none realized that the team's sudden and abrupt winning streak may have been the result of illegal tampering via the Angels involvement with several unlicensed, secretive "angels." Investigators viewing the tapes now can see that these, and most likely hundreds of other unknown plays, were the products of illegal angel-involvement. Angel-use this season became rampant and unchecked for nearly a decade, giving the Anaheim team an insane and hitherto unthought of unfair advantage during this season of Major League Baseball.

More damning evidence exists. Prior to the sudden influx of angel-usage amongst the club, the Angels' record was a meager 10-52, which was followed by an unprecedented 100 game winning streak. Several large feathers were found throughout the field by janitorial staff members. The subtle glow of a halo would often be seen over a player's head as he was at bat, followed by mighty home runs by players who had barely managed a successful bunt weeks prior. Also, Christopher Lloyd's voice was heard often by crowd members, despite the fact that he had lost corporeal form years prior.

It is the recommendation of this report to strip them of their World Series trophy and send several priests to the site of each known angel-abused area for spiritual cleansing. Priests and other approved religious figures/ghost-hunters should be used for random testing of bats, balls, gloves, and other contaminable areas of play.



(from page 47-48)

...

The first known case of using an illegal heavenly body to sway the game in favor of certain players or teams was in 1939, by a player known as Roy Hobbs who played for the now-defunct New York Knights. Hobbs reportedly struck out renowned hitter Walter "The Whammer" Whambold in three pitches at the age of 16. He was shot soon after by a crazed woman in a hotel, and disappeared from baseball for nearly two decades.

Upon his return, something was clearly awry about the once-promising man. According to eye witness reports and interviews, Hobbs was a walk-on for the team that year, and in his first batting practice hit every single one of the 40 pitches to him out of the park. Then, upon his first at-bat in the major league, he literally hit the ball with such force that it peeled the skin off of the ball. His batting average for the remainder of the season was a highly-suspiscious (yet nonetheless impressive) 8.68. It should be noted that the first half of the season, Hobbs batted a seemingly-impossible 1.00, only later faltering due to unknown personal circumstances.

While it was the belief of this report initially that Roy Hobbs inconceivable talent was the result of illegal steroids, further investigation showed a far more sinister form of tampering: a bat given to him by the Almighty, albeit indirectly. The bat - commonly referred to as "Wonderbat" - was the only bat Hobbs used, up until his final at bat, that is. The usage of "Wonderbat" was often accompanied by lightning or flashes of light, indicating some sort of spiritual interference.

...

(from page 89)

...

While outside the bounds of Major League Baseball's authority, there exists a place in Iowa that could be extremely useful in helping to identify the sources and uses of angels and other illegal heavenly bodies in our modern age. The farm owned by Ray Kinsella has a large baseball field built inexplicably into Mr. Kinsella's cornfield. The tourist attraction - which began drawing increasingly large numbers of spectators in 1989 - was apparently built solely by Kinsella after hearing "a voice."

Fans and spectators have reported seeing the spectres of deceased baseball players - including the infamous "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and relative unknowns such as Archibald "Moonlight" Graham - playing baseball in their former uniforms. Many of these spectators reported to have no idea why they went to the location nor how they knew where exactly to go, but all went and paid what they could. They would arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. The Kinsellas seemingly did not mind if they looked around. They were reportedly charged $20 per person, which they would pass over without even thinking about it: for it is money they had and peace they lacked. They would walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They would find they had reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they watched the game and it was as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories were purportedly so thick that they "had to brush them away from their faces."

This strange and odd behavior must be studied if we hope to curb the growing presence of illegal angels and other such heavenly bodies in Major League Baseball. That is all.

Hey, look! This article's on McSweeney's!

The Three Wise Men: One Year Later

The three magi stood still that night, staring into the sky.

"I don't see it."

"Neither do I."

"This is ridiculous, guys. What the hell were we thinking?"

Balthazar and Gaspar stared intently at Melcior, who had yet to say a word.

"Oookay," began Melcior, finally. "Maaaaaybe we were a little hasty last year."

"What?!" Balthazar was incredulous. "Oh you cannot be serious, Mel. I mean, you simply CANNOT be serious. Do you have any idea what last year was like for me? Couldn't afford to get the wife anything for our anniversary because I had to follow a friggin' STAR and give all the gold I had to a baby who was lying in a pile of hay in a barn while still covered in his mother's placenta! And now you tell me we might have been hasty?"

"Hold it, Balthazar," stepped in Gaspar. "Now, let's just assume we were right. I mean, that was a pretty crazy star we saw."

Balthazar calmed himself for a second and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I guess it was."

"Right. And, even though he didn't really look like it at the time, that kid is gonna be huge someday. I mean...son-of-God huge. And who do you think he's gonna be taking care of with the Big Guy Upstairs? Huh?"

"Us, that's who!" jumped in Melcior.

Balthazar sighed, and crossed his arms.

"Here's what I know: there was this crazy-ass star last year. One year ago exactly. We followed it, however the hell you follow a star. We brought the finest gifts our money could bring us. We found a kid in a barn that stank of horse poop. We gave the gifts to a kid who had no idea who or what we were. The kid farted, maybe twice. We ditched out. King Herod found out about us and killed a bunch of newborns. The end. I get what my wife was talking about now."

"Okay, it sounds kinda crazy when you say it like that," began Gaspar. "But my question is, and this is primarily for you, Mel, since it was your idea in the first place, what now? Do we go back and give the kid more gifts?"

"I've been thinkin' the same thing, guys, trust me." Melcior cleared his throat. "I think we go back. But we've given our gifts. I mean, they were essentially hoboes and we gave them gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Not too shabby, eh? I think the least they could do is put us up for the night, give us a little dinner, let us spend some time with the savior."

"But we don't know where the hell to go, Mel!" yelled an exasperated Balthazar. "Look up in the sky! You see a star? No! Nothing! Nada! They were only in Bethlehem last year 'cause of that census. Who knows where they are now."

"I hear Nazareth..."

"Nazareth? Oh man, count me out, buddy," said Gaspar. "I mean, Bethlehem's a pain in the ass enough, but Nazareth? Holy cow, I think not."

"Think for a second guys!" Melcior was a bit giddy. "If we do this every year - and we totally can - we could end up being Jesus's cool uncles. The messiah's cool uncles. We would be a shoe-in with God! We might up becoming saints or something."

"That's assuming this kid actually is the messiah and not just a hobo's kid who was born in a pile of hay next to a mare," retorted Balthazar.

"But..the star!"

"Oh yeah, the star! I almost forgot! I spent my life savings because you saw a big 'ol star and it lead you to a barn! I nearly got killed by Herod for a star! The Massacre of the Innocents happened...because you found a goddamn star!"

"Now, hold on a sec, Baltha-"

"NO! I will NOT hold on a sec! This is bullshit! Mary and Joseph never wrote to us thanking us for the gifts, we've gotten no notice of thanks or goodwill from God, whose kid this supposedly is, and to top it all off, I'm standing around with you two numbskulls waiting to do it AGAIN!"

Balthazar stomped off in a huff to get some sleep. Melcior ran after him, but returned after he realized that there would be no consoling nor convincing Balthazar. He sat on a sand dune with Gaspar, and the two stared up into the night sky.

"You think he's really the messiah?" asked Melcior, nervously.

"Not sure," responded Gaspar, sighing to himself. "Doesn't really matter though, does it? At the very least, we helped out a poor kid and his family. How old was that mother? 13? 12? And the husband couldn't have been much older. They probably ate for three months on what we gave them. And maybe that kid will grow up to be the messiah, and we helped him. And maybe he'll just grow up to be a responsible adult. And maybe someday his parents'll tell him what three noble wise men did for them the day he was born. And maybe he'll do the same for some other poor couple with a newborn. And then it'll start all over again..."

"Yeah," murmurred Melcior. "I'm kinda hoping for the messiah thing though. That'd be awesome."

Bitter Eggnog: Letters to Santa '07

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy all year long and I want a new bike for Christmas, please. Thank you!

Sincerely,
Jimmy

Dear Jimmy,

Fuuuuck you, kid. Very good boy all year? You think I'm blind, kid? You think I don't know all and see all? Jesus Christ, lying to Santa in the letter where you purport to be good? And having the gall to ask for PRESENTS? Are you the same Jimmy who gave his sister a wet willy at least twice a week this year? Are you the same Jimmy who broke a window and blamed it on the neighbor's retarded son? Wow, kid, you have some fuckin' balls writing to me. No new bike this year. Maybe if you're lucky I'll give you a brand new SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

Yours,
Santa

Dear Santa,

How are you? How is Mrs. Claus? I hope you and the elves are doing good, and are hard at work preparing for next Christmas, which is rapidly approaching. I know you don't have much free time, so I'll cut to the chase! I've been pretty good this year, not perfect, but pretty good. I would like a 1963 red Jaguar and for my step-dad to die in a horrible accident.

Thanks!
William

Dear shithead,

This is Santa Claus. Fuck you, buddy. Asking how I am? How do you think I am?! Doc says I gotta undergo a triple bypass in a month, assuming I survive through Christmas, which is about 50/50. And you have the fucking nerves to ask me for an antique car? Ohhhhhhh sure, I'll go get the elves to carve one OUT OF FUCKING WOOD. Hope you don't mind that when it rains the frame warps completely and a team of beavers might jack it to finish their fucking dam. And how is Mrs. Claus? None of your goddamn business. And according to her lawyers, none of mine either. And murder your stepdad? Jesus...what the hell is wrong with kids these days? Fuck you. I need a drink.

-Santa


Dear Santa,

I love you! My name is Betty. I have been good all year! I don't want any toys or nothing for Christmas. I just want my cousin Artie to not be sick. He has lookemia. The doctor says he is not doing good = (. Please make him better!

Love,
Betty

Dear Betty,

Oh man...I'm sorry. I'm worthless. WORTHLESS. I'm a joke, a hack. I can't do shit for you, Betty. Oh god...I've lost it all. Mrs. Claus won't talk to me, the elves won't listen to me, the reindeer mutter about me under their breath... I'm pathetic. I can't wait to die.

Oh, and while I admire your selflessness...SINCE WHEN AM I FUCKING GOD?! I know I ride on a real fast sleigh 'n shit, but how does that give me the power to cure cancer?! Way to make me feel even shittier about myself and my shitty life. I so do not need this right now. Holy shit, I'm done. I quit.

Oh yeah, and one more thing.

I AM NOT REAL. NEITHER IS THE EASTER BUNNY.

HO HO HO,
Me


Dear Santa,

I've been good all year and I totally want this new video game called Madden for my PS3. My parents won't buy it for me cuz I got two F's this year. Screw them, Santa'll get it for me. That's what I told 'em. You're awesome, bro.

High five,
Drew

Dear (YOUR NAME HERE)

Sorry for the inconvenience, I'm currently out of the office at the North Pole right now! I'm probably checking my list twice or making sure the elves are hard at work and not drinking too much eggnog on their lunch break...just kidding! I hope you've been a good little boy/girl this year! If you have been, I'll be dropping by with a (REQUESTED TOY) to put under your tree! Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!

-S.C.