Last week was my birthday. If you feel bad about forgetting to wish me a Happy Birthday, you needn’t worry. You can make up for it by buying something from my Amazon Wish List. You know, like I’m a pornstar and you’re one of those weirdos who buys me new lingerie and purses in return for a signed 5×9 glossy.
On the eve of the big day I made a pretty momentous decision. I’ve decided to spend the last year of my twenties working towards one goal and one goal only:
One conclusion I've come to on the eve of my 29th birthday: by 30 I want to own a hottub and spend the rest of my life as a hottub guy.
— JR Hickey (@johnnyjhickey) April 17, 2017
Owning and operating a hot tub by the age of 30 doesn’t just scream success. It screams sex. No longer will I spend my evenings staggering over to my couch to split my time between half heartedly scrolling through Netflix and looking through my phone. Instead I envision a much different type of evening…
I scrape the remainders of my sirloin dinner into my wolf Bastian’s food dish, walk to my silk robe closet with half chewed Cuban poking out of my lips, pour myself four fingers of Scotch and lower my body, naked as the day I was born, into my own personal 105 degree maelstrom.
I look out as the sun sinks below the snow covered mountains of my Colorado backyard and admire how brilliant the stars look at night. The Capital R Roommate, who has now become the Capital W Wife, walks out onto the deck carrying a silver platter adorned with an assortment of candied walnuts and Morrocan chocolates. She struggles to climb into the hot tub due to her oversized breast implants but I don’t move a muscle to assist her. Because my muscles are in a state of complete relaxation due to the hot tub’s 26 massaging water propulsion jets.
We share the dessert and talk about that past weekend’s hot tub party, which we of course hosted. A few other neighborhood couples came over and we spent much of the late evening and early morning submerged in the balmy beauty of the whirlpool. Drinks and wives were shared as our laughter echoed up and over the mountain peaks.
Our Filipino nanny (my mother) asks if she can be done for the day. I ask her first if the kitchen has finished being cleaned and then tell her I don’t have my checkbook on me but will pay her extra next week. She asks again if she can move into one of our six spare bedrooms, but I patiently explain to her that those are reserved for hot tub party guests only.
After spending a quick seven hour soak in the tub and with my blood alcohol content at five times the legal limit, I make my way to my royal blue Hummer to drive off to visit my secretary and stay at her studio apartment in the city. Don’t worry, the Capital W Wife is both understanding and open to welcoming her into our bedroom.
As I weave back and forth at 87 mph down a pitch-black mountain road, I’m blinded suddenly by the hi-beams of an oncoming snowplow. I swerve to avoid a head on collision and send the Hummer through the guardrail and over the side of a thousand foot drop. The last words that run through my foggy, alcohol soaked brain before we smash headfirst against the bottom of the hillside are simply, “Did I forget to put the cover on the hot tub?”
I can’t wait..
This week on Don’t Take It From Us, Jenna Crowley, and I rate and grade your dating profiles with our new segment Bumblebraggin! We also discuss nightmare airplane scenarios and answer your DMs! New eps will be released every Wednesday, so check it out on Soundcloud below or on iTunes!
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