DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING

Here are some things I can proudly say I’ve never done:

I’ve never spoken to my authorized Mercedes-Benz dealer.
I’ve never had an erection that lasted more than four hours. Hell, I’ve never had an erection that lasted more than three hours.
I’ve never made fun of a caveman.
I’ve never slapped a gypsy.
I’ve never not woken up, so far.
I’ve never farted in Carnegie Hall. That was not me.
I’ve never said ne’er.
I’ve never violated a restraining order.
I’ve never said I’ve never met a man I didn’t like.
I’ve never made a list with more than ten items.

The thing about a list like this is, just when you think it’s finalized and ready to send to the engraver, along comes a caveman and whap! the whole thing’s in flux again. You just can’t count on anything. Ten years ago, item 8 on my list was “I’ve never been to Romania.” I thought to myself, there’s a keeper. And then what did I do? I went to Romania! Just last week, #4 was “I’ve never seen bacon on the sidewalk.” And sure enough, on Monday I saw a slice of bacon on the sidewalk. I’d gone 48 years without seeing bacon on the sidewalk, I thought I was good from here on out (Hey, I’m 48 in crackskullbob years: a crackskullbob year is a length of time which, when multiplied by 61, results in 48.) Tomorrow a gypsy may cross my path and, well, too bad for that gypsy. I mean, you have to be open to these things. You have to be receptive, or else you’ll miss the bacon.