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Foolish Fantasies

Updated on February 1, 2013

When I was a teenager,

I wanted to be Italian,change my

name to Giovanni,wear a blue suit

with wide pinstripes and a white tie,

cruise into an Italian restaurant,

slurp the pasta sauce, and say to

the cook, “Yo, I’d like to know if you

wouldn’t mind marrying me too

much.” Only Italians don’t have

many freckles, and oregano gives

me gas.


When I became a father,

I dreamed of making a movie

directed by Steven Spielberg and

starring my sons. It’d be called

Oh my God,Don’t Touch That, It’s

Hot! Only my wife would make

Spielberg get stunt babies so the

wind wouldn’t mess up my sons’

precious hair.


When I turned 40, I wanted to write

the “Great American Novel” using a

pen name like Brutus or Q and

keep the country in suspense until

I revealed myself on Oprah. Only

Oprah doesn’t have a show

anymore and the audience would

have changed the channel to

watch Baywatch re-runs anyway

once it saw I wasn’t the newest

James Bond.


I have always wanted to go back to

when I was 16 at bat with the bases

loaded two out down 7-5 in the state

semifinals with the count full and

3,000 fans chanting my name sweat

trickling down my face and this time

that lazy can-of-corn fly ball won’t be

caught by the center fielder but will

fly over the scoreboard and into the

sky and won’t come down ever.


If only that happened,

I wouldn’t need any other fantasy.

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