I Want ...

I Want ...

I want to go to a gas station and say, "Fill 'er up!"

I want to blame everything on the Bossa Nova.

I want to know why sad songs say so much.

I want Al Pacino to stop making movies.

I want President O'bama to admit that he's Irish.

I want a penny for my afterthoughts.

I want part of the revenue that TV stations get from infomercials.

I want Christianity to stop exploiting Jesus.

I want people to have a good laugh when they read William P Young's book, The Shack.

I want a baker's baker's dozen.

I want to know who put the bop in the bop shoo bop and who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong.

I want all those little critters involved in the death of Cock Robin brought to justice once and for all.

I want to know how to make up a batch of holy water.

I want know which of the Williams sister, Serena or Venus, has the bigger butt.

I want reality shows to quit trying to convince us that what we're watching is in any way some kind of reality.

I want to see a gay version of The Bachelor.

I want meatballs with my spaghetti.

I want the police to do their job.

I want basketball to disappear.

I want Madonna to stop ... everything. Just stop already.

I want Donald Trump to buy Mexico.

I want art for art's sake.

I want to make love to the beat of "You Ain't Nothing But A Hound Dog."

I want to listen to John Lennon's "Imagine," and not have to imagine.

I want too much.