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I’m Even Late for the Easy Ones

Jeez, I almost forgot — yesterday was the fifteenth. Another issue of Zoiks! is out. Which means I get a freebie post, and I almost let it get away. That would’ve sucked.

But oh, happy day — I got my head out of my ass and remembered. And so, below you’ll find my submission for the last issue of Zoiks!. And, if you pop over to the Zoiks! website, like a good little reader, you’ll see my piece in the current issue. Plus all the other pieces. And a picture of a kitten. What’s not to like, already?

And if that’s not enough chucklebuggery for you, hop on over to the brandy-new Cliche-O-Matic for a new motto or three. I’ll be hooking up a few more setups tonight, so there’s more hilarity to be had than ever. Rock on, amigos.

What Time Is ‘Golden Girls’ On?

By the time you read this, I will be gone.

Not ‘gone’ as in ‘dead’, of course. Rather, ‘gone’ as in ‘rendered permanently irrelevant’. As opposed to the ‘temporarily irrelevant’ that I currently suffer from.

I’m writing this on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday. And we all know what happens when one turns thirty-five: it’s game over. Nighty-night. Sayonara. Because thirty-five takes you out of that all-important eigtheen-to-thirty-four age bracket that makes the world go ’round. All of the entertainment, the advertising, the culture, everything — it’s all meant for the ‘old enough to vote but too young to be elected dictator’ crowd. And it’s just about to pass me by.

You see, right now I’m thirty-four. I’m relevant. Appreciated. I’m hot, happening, and the chicks all dig me. Where ‘dig’ is a relative term, of course. The point is, in another thirty-six hours or so, there’ll be nothing left to dig. I’ll be a gray-haired old pile of bones, whiling my few remaining days away in a rocking chair.

For the moment, things are great. The media wants me to listen to the latest music, and see cool new movies like ‘Batman Begins’, and watch hot shows like ‘The OC’, because “the girls on that show are fiii-ine”. Once I’m thirty-five, though, it all changes. They’ll have me listening to Lawrence Welk, and going to the theater for ‘Cocoon 4: The Shriveling’, and watching ‘Murder, She Wrote’, because “that Angela Lansbury was a handsome woman”. Not quite the same, now, is it?

I suppose there are perks to becoming irrelevant, though. I can finally stop paying attention to commercials — most of them won’t be meant for me any more, anyway. And I won’t have to feel so bad about not seeing the latest flicks, or buying the most recent… what is it they put music on these days? LPs? CDs? ABCs? Eh, who can keep up with such things? Not a man of my age, certainly.

For a while, I thought I might receive less spam in my old age, too. After all, the over-thirty-five crowd can’t be expected to navigate our way around those newfangled electrical computer boxes, right? At best, I’ll soon be signing up for AOL and using my mouse for a foot pedal. And half the spam I get now is for the younger set — get rich, grow a monster penis, and get laid every night. We old folks don’t have time for any of that nonsense. The money buys canned prunes, an enlarged prostate is the only big organ I’ll need, and handsome old Mrs. Lansbury isn’t putting out any more.

Of course, then I remembered that the other half of the spam I get is for Viagra. So maybe there’s advertising after thirty-five, after all. And life after irrelevancy, too. Now where can I get my hands on a bottle of those pills?