With yet another turn of the calendar, we usher in another new year. For me, that also means another impending birthday, since mine falls on the sixth day of the year. In the Roman Catholic Church, that day is known as the Epiphany, which seems befitting, since the last few times it’s rolled around, I’ve had an epiphany that I’m getting old.With this one, I turn 38, which means I’m only two years from 40. Guys, you know what that means – I’m two years from getting the finger. And no, I’m not talking about the kind administered by angry fellow motorists.Oddly enough, those ordeals are called digital rectal exams. I’ve always thought rectums were analog.I’m not sure if anyone is ever truly prepared to turn 40, but I think I’ve got a pretty good head start. I bitch and moan like an old fart. Plus, this past year, I started drinking Scotch. It helps to mellow me out from all my bitching and moaning.Scotch is anything but a young person’s drink. Scotch is what old, grizzled, TV cops pull out of their desks at the end of an episode after the bad guys got away.
Under-forty drinkers, on the other hand, generally stick to spirits like vodka, Bourbon, Cognac, and tequila. You hear them order potables like Jack® & Coke® or Crown® & 7®. You never hear some twenty-something, hip club-hopper say, “Hey, barkeep! Macallan® 12. Neat!”
By the way, am I the only one who thinks it’s an abomination that not all bartenders nowadays know what “neat” means? You’d think that a person entrusted to preparing drinks for the alcohol-consuming public would have a firm grasp of the terminology necessary for that solemn duty. However, thanks to some unfortunate Scotch-ordering experiences, I often find myself schooling some kid who’s probably not old enough to drink on the finer points of bartending parlance.
Wow, now I’m bitching and moaning about drinking Scotch. I’m definitely getting old.
Oh well. At least I don’t have to worry about enduring a mid-life crisis. Instead, I suppose I’ve accepted – nay, embraced – my aging, not to mention I absolutely refuse to don a toupee.
Besides hair loss, another symptom of my maturation is continually thinking about all the things I want to accomplish before I’m too old. While I’m not sure exactly what age is “too old,” it seems to get higher every year.
Motivational gurus say a person is much more likely to accomplish a goal if he or she writes it down. Well, not only have I written down some of my goals, but I’ve published them, too. That way, instead of merely being accountable to myself, I’m accountable to every person who reads this article…all six of them.
My first goal is to open a gay bar. That’s right, a gay bar. I’d call it “The Black Angus.” That way, I could run ads that say, “Come check out our beef at The Black Angus! (The ‘G’ is silent!)”
Since I have some writing experience, I figure I might want to write a book, too. Why not? Everyone else is. Besides, the literary world recently learned that it will not be enriched by a tome authored by the mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn Spears.
About the same time that 16-year-old Jamie Lynn revealed her pregnancy, Christian book publisher Thomas Nelson, Inc. announced that Lynne Spears’ parenting book would be delayed indefinitely. The memoir, entitled Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World, was originally and aptly scheduled for release on Mother’s Day this year.
Therefore, being the opportunistic guy that I am, I’ll pick up that fumble and take it to the house. I’ll spend every spare moment composing my own parenting guide. After all, I don’t have any kids, and that makes me an expert on how other people should raise theirs.
While I’m on the subject of teen pop stars, I have another goal I’d like to share. I want to attend a Hannah Montana concert before she becomes a porn star. I just want to be able to brag that I saw the girl live while she was still sweet and innocent, and before her dad blew her entire trust fund on coke and hookers.
Please, don’t be so naïve by calling me mean and hateful. Trust me, it’s an inescapable fate for the poor girl. The stars are perfectly, yet tragically, aligned.
First, her stage name is Hannah Montana. That’s the quintessential name for a porn starlet. Not only does it rhyme, but it’s geographically themed, too. Any time a girl’s name includes a geographical reference (Cheyenne, Sierra, Asia), she’s halfway to appearing in adult films. The fact that her name rhymes only reinforces her inevitable fortune. Case in point: Alexis Texas.
Secondly, I’ve had occasion to witness some of Miss Cyrus’ abilities as a thespian on the Disney Channel (not by choice). Believe me, when it comes to acting skills, porn is definitely in her future. There’s a precedent for this prediction. Remember Screech from Saved by the Bell?
Finally, Hannah Montana’s dad is Billy Ray Cyrus. I’m sorry, but when an attractive girl has a father who’s famous for a mullet, she’s destined to do unsavory things in front of a camera. Don’t blame me. He’s the one who wore that haircut and gave her that name.