Responsibility is such an ugly word.
By Matt Farr

In one month, I'll be a father. 

Strangely enough, I'm not particularly worried about taking care of our new child. How hard can it be? My wife and I have a free magazine subscription to "Today's Parent" magazine, a six pack of bibs, and a coupon for plastic diapers. We've got everything we need.

What I'm really worried about is being "responsible."

Up until now, my approach to responsibility has been avoidance and denial - I avoided all responsibility if possible (and denied taking it if I had to). Unfortunately, I now am faced with the possibility that if I act really stupid and kill or maim myself, it might have repercussions beyond a few weeks. There will be a very small boy or girl who might never get to know me -- and that would be a true tragedy.

With this life-changing event looming over me, I realize now that I've been way too responsible already. I didn't realize how much I could have been messing around. Why have I been gainfully employed for the last 15 years? What was I thinking?

I've got 31 days -- no, the baby could come early. Twenty days. I've got 20 days to act horribly irresponsibly, disregarding any consequences of my actions. Then it's all over. I'll have to be responsible.

To be truly reckless in a short time, one must have a plan, a timetable. Every day counts. 

Day One: Quit my job. Use profane gestures and the phrase "Your mother stinks like a yak." (It would be far too responsible to simply ask for a four-week leave of absence.) 

Day Two: Shave my head. It will take too long to grow hair down past my shoulders, so an ugly shaved head will have to do. Mine will be particularly frightening with scars and lumps. Next, get a big tattoo across my back of Pamela Anderson, naked, riding a Harley and toting a machine gun, just above the motto, "I Hate People."

Day Three: Buy a 1966 Corvette convertible with giant chrome side pipes and a big block 427ci, 450hp engine with a "power bulge" hood. Ha! No baby seat will fit in this puppy! This is all the more irresponsible because I will purchase the car with a loan I can't afford since I just quit my job (day one).

Day Four: Visit my bank and make a comprehensive withdrawal. Buy a very expensive Armani suit, a thick gold ring, and Italian boots made from the dried skin of spotted owls. Drive to Vegas in my '66 Vette with the top down. Forgo all use of sunscreen. 

Day Five: Bet everything on 22. Sleep in car. 

Day Six: Siphon gasoline from a Cadillac. Drive to Alaska. Buy a large hunting knife and some waterproof matches. Kill and eat a polar bear.

Day Seven: Sell Popsicles to Eskimos.

Day Eight: Fly to Lebanon. Join the Foreign Legion. Cross the Mohave Desert on a camel.

Day Nine: Quit Foreign Legion. Pick up girls in Afghanistan.

Day Ten: Join Merchant Marines. Sail to Singapore. Teach fellow sailors to sing Mozart's opera Cosi Fan Tutte. 

Day Eleven: Chew gum in Singapore.

Day Twelve: Write a computer virus that randomly deletes electronic appointments in Microsoft Outlook. Send it to a half million people from a cyber café.

Day Thirteen: Go to Tibet. Become a Buddhist monk. 

Day Fourteen: Lead Buddhist monk pals on trip to Zimbabwe to make bungee jump from the Victoria Falls Bridge. Introduce monks to the exotic taste of Jägermeister liquor, blended from 56 different spices.

I've only got a few more weeks to be completely stupid, so if you've got some suggestions for how I should spend my final immature days, please email them to me. Don't expect a response, of course, since I will be diving for sunken treasure off the coast of Dubai with a harem of Swedish stewardesses.

And if I don't get to accomplish all of my reckless dreams? I can always pick up where I left off -- in another 22 years. 

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©2001 Matthew Farr
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