Pajiba

Easy, pick-up a hooker, and some blow, probably some cigarettes too.

Anyone who knows his business KNOWS how to get this things in the provided time frame.

Russell Crowe.

I'd probably skip the waiting around and just go jump in front of a car to save a kid or something as some heroic self-sacrifice. Granted, I will have put the kid deliberately in front of the car beforehand so I could achieve this, but still. It's the thought that counts.

I'd ask Pat O'Brien what to do.

Write a will to make sure nobody tries to inject formaldehyde into or put make-up on my corpse. Dead people should not look like shop mannequins and they are composed of perfectly good organic matter: why poison them so they won't decompose properly?

I'd have sex.

And after those five minutes are used up, I'd probably go looking for Dick Cheney ... just for a talk, you know.

Take a nap.

Tis' better to die while sleeping, than to never have died at all.

Charge a fine meal at the best restaurant in town, including appetizer, dessert, drinks.

Find a way to take everyone with me.

Everyone.

Is anyone ill on the supercollider team, TK?

Unfortunately I'd have to spend my last ninety-two minutes throwing away things I wouldn't want my family to stumble across as they went through my belongings.

If I had any time left over I'd probably pop in Eternal Sunshine...

More than likely, anal.

Massive, epic, multiple tellings off, using cusswords I invent for the occasion.

Mini-diversion: You've got 92 minutes to live. What do you do, hotshot?

Ha. How do you kill a muppet, exactly?

So do we know the method? I don't want to be around anyone I like if it's violent. Hell, I probably don't want to be around anyone since there's not enough time for really life-affirming sex...but maybe I'll join Todd in burning the evidence.

92 minutes should give me plenty of time to stage a death scene worthy of my family's legacy of absurdity.

Or at least enough to set up something that'll really screw with the forensics team.

Hug my mom. Hug my friends. Burn all incriminating evidence. Hug my siblings. Do...something. Do somebody. Go to my favorite spot in my favorite park with a blanket and a bottle of wine to die peaceful and alone. Like a dog. A drunk dog.

Che Grovera:

So you've never been behind the scenes at the Children's Television Workshop then? Faceless, unanimated felt wherever the eyes settle.

Write letters of love to my family (10 minutes) spell/grammar check them (20 minutes) troll a Borders to find a cute nerdy guy to have public sex with in the park, and succeed (one hour, inlcuding the search, because this is about being realistic, right?) and expire peacefully in the back of the cop car as they write us up for indecent exposure. The cop would have pity on my poor shocked conquest and let him go free with a warning, and after a day or two of soul searching Nerd Guy would write the experience up on his popular blog and I would be immortalized.

Yes I would.

So you've never been behind the scenes at the Children's Television Workshop then? Faceless, unanimated felt wherever the eyes settle.

Posted by: PaddyDog at September 17, 2008 12:19 PM

Oh, the horror!

Although it occurs to me that I've had numerous faceless, unanimated feels in my time...

I would shoot one last game of pool with my dad. Afterwards, I would hopefully see my sons play catch and enjoy each other's company, hopefully providing an exhibit that I did something good as a father.

If I'm going to die anyway, I'd give John McCain a pie in the face and a superatomic wedgie. I'd give Obama a high-five and warn him that if he fucks up he'll get it worse. I'd arrange for Palin to "accidentally" fall into a wastewater holding pond in front of live cameras while talking about faith- walking on water, then I'd yell "you're not invincible, you're a loony!" before taking hostages and going on a rampage through the worst offenders in Corporate America and Hollywood.

That, or I'd get really pissed off and get myself cryogenically preserved in orbit for reanimation once MurderMaid detects the mushroom clouds have adequately subsided.

I'd steal a school bus and in lieu of finding a wall of flaming televisions to drive it through, I'd just create havoc. Eventually, the bus would die on me, and the authorities would try to apprehend me. Naturally, I'd resist the arrest, resulting in a little roughhousing, and if I time my shit just right, I'd be getting shoved into the back of a cruiser at the 92nd minute. My loved ones would sue the living daylights out of the city, and with the money received, they'd build a giant, bronze idol of me & Minimus in the nude. Every hour on the hour, my statue would pee a stream of the finest liqueur, resulting in millions from tourist dollars. With the money received from that I'd have my DNA extracted from my corpse, clone myself and spend the remainder of my days writing memoirs of the afterlife. Eventually they'd make a movie, I'd get to offer casting suggestions, and by the end of the whole mess, I'd wind up sleeping with Zooey Deschanel, which was the plan from the get-go... Goddam right...

Heehee, good ol' Pookie.

Yay, I've returned from the boreal wilderness and am back in civilization Pajibaland. Kisses all around! I didn't get to pop in much while I was away, hope I didn't miss anything too exciting.

92 minutes, eh? Okay, that's a toughie. Maybe sex & weed, because I've never tried the two in combination and have heard it's fabulous. Sadly, hubby doesn't approve of the latter (happily, he's excellent at the former), but under the circumstances I suspect he'd humour me.

Call my loved ones. Have a nice meal with the Main Squeeze. Possibly jot down some directives re: what happens with my stuff.

Make a quick video will to give everyone the creeps from beyond the grave, and then recreate a climatic death scene from a cheesy action movie.

My choice would probably be skydiving without a parachute, and having someone push me out after yelling "Get off my plane!"

Fuck your 92 minutes. I die on my own terms.

I'd finally give into my darkest urges and masturbate furiously to Rosie O'Donell's blog until my penis begged for mercy. Then I'd spend the next 91 minutes hoping that I actually was dying.

make a sex tape

SugarFree... there is a sickness inside you. A darkness.

Let's be friends.

...and do blow off a hooker's ass. I've always wanted to do that.

Maybe buy a gun...just so that I know what that feels like.

Shit, when I only have 92 minutes, I turn into a Republican.

Actually, I'd probably off myself while listening to a Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus, and Nickelback megamix tape. It'd be my way of thanking Judas Priest and Ozzy...

Estelle, if you bring your gun I'll let you die with me on my blanket. We can shoot at pigeons and those Children's International people.

Julie, can I bring my hooker and my coke, too? Maybe we can do the wine drinking, blanket sleeping, blow-off-a-hooker's-ass-snorting, and sex tape all in Rittenhouse park!

Better yet, Clark Park, that way we can include the never-ending drum circle.

TK,

I'm just a causal lurker; it could never last and I like you too much as a commentter to threaten that relationship...

Hmmm, 92 minutes? Tell my kids, my mom, and my grandson I love them all. Tell my brothers and nephews to all fuck off. Tell my employer and all it's "members" what I REALLY think of their "supernatural superstitious" bullshit. Tell my boyfriend how he has really made me feel all these years and why the hell didn't I tell him this sooner?

Burn down the "playhouse." Take out most of the city officials in my town in a hale of semi-automatic weapons fire. High-five Peyton. Call Tom Brady and tell him he's a dick. Same for GWB, Cheney, and McCain. Drag a polar bear/smokey the monster, Ben, Sayid or Jack Bauer in to dispose of Palin. Screw RDJ and GC, even if it is just a quickie.

Then, with my last few breaths, ask for Dr. House to treat me. And, if even HE can't find a cure....it would be worth it just to hear him say, "IT'S NOT LUPUS!!!"

Definitely Clark Park, that way my decomposing body will be eaten by hippies and squirrels instead of Wharton students and rats. :p

I would go out the way I always knew I would. Hotel fire in a South American Country. Rage Against the Dying of The Light. And I would blog the hell out of it. Let my loved ones sell it in book form. I'd hook up everyone while I go out with a bang. (Interestingly enough, banging hookers would also be involved)

"And I would blog the hell out of it. Let my loved ones sell it in book form..."

Make it an E-Book and I'd download/share the hell out of it buddy.

I'll make you Torrent famous...posthumously.

Invite all the people I know to my house then detonate a shrapnel bomb on the sons of bitches because I hate everyone and take a shower in their bloody remains as they fall back to earth.

Re-read Hellraiser, then finish that piece of Lemarchand-themed fan fiction that's been lingering for almost a year now on the brink of finally paying off for all seven of its readers.

Hey! I was eaten by a Whatron student once and it was pretty good, actually.

oh

you meant after death.

Yes, Clark Park it is...I can smell the B.O. and weed already.

Hee!

Geez, Goolea can't even die without being an internet ho.

I'd hug my sister and give her the keys to my car, send an open "peace out" email to friends and family, burn my hideous bridesmaid gown, have sex one last time, get drunk on Johnny Walker Blue, and watch Doctor Who until I fade away.

...I can fit that into an hour and a half, right?

Go to my favorite spot in my favorite park with a blanket and a bottle of wine to die peaceful and alone. Like a dog. A drunk dog

Julie is the awesomest chick ever.

I was gonna say I'd watch It's a Wonderful Life, since I've never seen it, but that's 130 minutes. Damn. Sex it is, then. 92 minutes of hot, young eastern European boy in me, on me, and all around me.

...Damn. I'll be in my bunk.

Make a list on how to accomplish all the things I want to do in these 92 minutes. Burn the list.
Find the largest concentration of hipster douchebags in the city, lure them into an old warehouse with un-popular anti-esablishment alt-punk/rock music and enchanting words of hipsterism. Then burn that mother-fucker to the ground.

The final half hour would be spent receiving gratuitous blow-jobs from those formerly oppressed as a reward for rescuing the generation from rampant douchebaggery.

What can I say, I like helping people.

Mini-diversion: You've got 92 minutes to live. What do you do, hotshot?

Console friends, family, and all I know and love; then go to the Middle East and act out a little piece of action drama I like to call, "Jack Bauer's Last Stand".

Yes, I know there's a 92 minute restriction, but if the War on Terror truly is "God's Work" then I don't see why I can't be granted an extension to deliver kick assed justice.

...I can fit that into an hour and a half, right?

Posted by: Nicole at September 17, 2008 2:13 PM

-------------------------------------------------

I can take care of the sex thing, in 4 nah! make it 2 minutes. Then you can take care of the rest of the list after you get me a pack of smokes, sugartits.

My brother-in-law has my number in his phone under "Sugartits". True story.

holy shit. My dude has me as "Sugar Tits!" I used to have him under his name, but he changed it first to "Amazing Penis!" and now to "Cockalicious!" He likes exclamation points.

The requisite family calling would be first. Then I would burn my entire library into a huge pile of ash, stomp on it, piss on it and yell at it (eat that, graduate school!). Then I would gather all the ashes up into my arms (even the pissy ones) and beg its forgiveness. So in other words, Monday.

Lose my virginity. And if intercourse doesn't meet my expectations, I'll murder anyone who has pissed me off.

I like "Cockalicious!" My pseudo-husband is in my phone as Yoshi, which is what he was called by a friend of a friend who couldn't think of his name. it's convenient because he's the only "Y" then, plus he's last on the list, so easier scrolling. God forbid I ever meet someone whose name begins with "Z".

I also have "Frenchy" (same brother in law, who is Cuban), "Grumpy Pants", "Godless Heathen", and "Jordan Catalano". It's fun to make up names!

Heroin...it's the only one I will never have the guts to try otherwise.
This, of course, after I exact my reveng on everyone who's ever wronged me. I'm not sure you can massacre on heroin. From what I've seen, mostly it involves lying there...

smoke one more blunt.

snort one more gram of cocaine.

eat one more 1/8 of mushrooms.

have sex with one more hooker.

ride on top of one of the L trains as it goes downtown.

take a bath in the Buckingham Fountain.

throw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field.

....

scream at the cops that will eventually chase me that they aren't "real po-lice."

take a nose dive off the Hancock building cause the Sears tower has a shitty view.

I would head for the Hills....find Spencer and Heidi and I would strike down upon thee with great vengeance and FURIOUS ANGER....

Actually, here's a brief list of the other people I would smite before taking my last breath and fall into eternal slumber

Paris Hilton
Rumer Willis
Carlos Mencia
Abe Vigoda - just so I'd have someone cool to hang with during Afterlife Orientation
Rainbow Killer
Kobe Bryant
Madonna
Any Desperate Housewive not named Filliam H. Muffman
France - yep the whole damn country. Cheese eating surrender monkeys!!!!

Apparently I have a lot of anger in me....thankfully the pills I take even me out, and my invisible friend is really good at calming me down.

More than likely, anal.

Posted by: Pookie at September 17, 2008 12:06 PM

Give or receive?

Sex and cookies. In a hot tub.

brb.

"I suspect I'd spend most of those 92 minutes trying to ... fuck."

One last email to the family, then go slam delicious ales on an overpass, smoking like hell. Watch the world go by.

You've got 92 minutes to live. What do you do, hotshot?

You mean after I shit myself, stripped nekkid and ran around my neighborhood?

I'd call everyone I know and let them know what I really think of them while drinking everything I could buy on my credit card and simultaneously fuck the shit out of my husband.

Seriously, I would put my P stink down on that so bad, he would never want another woman. You know, because I would probably die during which would logically ruin him for sex with any other woman ever again.

You do know what they say about sex with a dead woman? The smell, the smell, OH GOD the smell.

Or, maybe I'd just twitter it. Cause I do have a phone set aside just for twittering.

I'd kill somebody. Walk down the sidewalk until I meet a group of people who refuse to go single file and let me pass, then take a claw hammer to the neck of the closest one.

Or take the train anywhere and watch for some jackass who stands in front of the doors, blocking the way for the people who need to get off. Throw it onto the third rail, let the electricity do the rest.

Impolite Yankee assholes.

I don't think I've ever had reason to say this before, but, BSlim, I love you.

You can just have my leftover smokes. I won't be needing them where I'm going.

To quote The Queens of the Stone Age
"Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol
Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol
Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol
Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol

C-c-c-c-c-cocaine
C-c-c-c-c-cocaine
C-c-cocaine
C-c-c-c-c-cocaine"

Then 2 nice, big sandwiches, 1 pastrami & raaaaare roast beef, some onion rings (fresh made, not the frozen plastic ones) and a large diet coke and eat until I pass out. Or maybe just the second part

I'd go throw a tennis ball for my dogs, watching them lolloping around the park.

Of course, then I'd expire, leave a moderately good-looking corpse and be eaten by said dogs. You can't win 'em all. Besides, my girlfriend would be able to hoard the dog biscuits for a few days.

92 minutes? I've always been scared of drugs (getting caught), getting drunk (horror stories of college student friends), and random sex encounters (too much drama).

In 52 minutes, I plan to cram as much of the above as I can and hopefully die with a deluded smile on my face as I frolic on purple meadows with a hooker sandwich under me.

The first 40 minutes would be for tear-filled goodbyes of family and friends, duh. What kind of heartless monster do you think I am?

Check that...I'm sure I can shave off a couple minutes to go frame a few people who really, really need it. I could break into someone's house (cough, cough), doped up and have an orgy in their house, and on the 91st minute I'd call 911 and tell them about the drugs and hookers and dead bodies. Then I'd kill myself with his shaving kit.

The hookers would have instructions to continue doing the most perverted disgusting acts in and around the house as they could (feel free to use my corpse, just don't dislodge the shaving kit) until the police arrive. With any luck, I'll have timed things so that he wakes up from the roofie colada I gave him right about then.

Damn...now I want 92 minutes to live...

What I like to think I would do: call up my friends for a massive drunken fest/call up the hot old guy in my building.

Sadly, what I most likely would actually do: argue with whoever it was who told me about these alleged "92 minutes to live," be it a deity, a head of a nation, a head of NASA, etc. Because really, who the hell has the power to know exactly how many minutes are left in my life? If they have that knowledge, shouldn't they have the ability to prevent my death? Come on. Ninety-two minutes? That's some kind of bullshit right there.

You seen my horse, mate?

Write up my will and songs I want played at my funeral. Oh and maybe do every illicit drug at once.

That's easy...blow my six years of sobriety :-)

Oh I forgot...after that first drink, I'd buy 10 gallons of KY, a baby pool, some whipped cream, and a 9-iron, and then track down Salma Hayek.

Two chicks at the same time.

Two chicks at the same time.

Posted by: Gamal at September 18, 2008 3:24 AM

If you haven't been able to get this one done up until now, what are you gonna do differently to make it happen in the next 92 minutes? If you have an answer, what are you waiting for?

I'd find the cure.

I will need a hooker, a quarter ounce of hash, some heroin, Monica Belluci, and a trampoline.

Quit looking at me like that. They're MY 92 minutes.

I'd re-enact my favourite scenes from Grand Theft Auto in which I reign hell with the shotgun I keep in a cupboard in the dining room and then get pursued at high speed by multiple police cars. If I manage to keep driving for the remaining 82 minutes then I've gone out with a bang. If I get taken down before then I didn't deserve to live.