I am only 23, but I feel fairly confident that when I die, I’ll probably be one of those sad bastard geezers who complains about all the shit I never crossed off my bucket list with my pal Morgan Freeman. “I never hang glided,” I’ll say. “I never did whippets out of a hooker’s ass while watching Fraggle Rock,” I’ll moan in between sputtery breaths. “I never wrote the great American novel about a boy, his dog, his peg leg, and their quest for religious freedom, free from the persecution of the oppressive Amish overlords and Phillies fans of Western Pennsylvania,” I’ll say, looking right into my grandson’s eyes as I surely scar him for life by dying right then. Read more »