Sep 19, 2008

Forty? Pounder!

Top Ten revelations about becoming forty:
  1. Music in 1968 was really good -- Hey Jude, Jumping Jack Flash, and REALLY bad -- Yummy Yummy Yummy, Hurdy Gurdy Man.*)
  2. 40 is the new 30 (in much the same way Cedric the Entertainer is the new Richard Pryor).
  3. Buying a 40-pounder of booze is still out of the question. It used to be because of the money. Now it's about the expiry date.
  4. That sound your knees make when you get out of bed is not breaking bones, but it ain't good.
  5. Ear hair. Yeah... that's fair.
  6. Apparently turning 50 is worse. I'm okay with that.
  7. In 1968, you couldn't put a man on the moon. In 2008... you can't put a man on the moon. Godspeed, John Glenn.
  8. I am exactly 25 years from my kids realizing how young I was 'back then'. There will still be no hover-cars.
  9. Most prized birthday present? Sleeping 'til 8:30 on Sunday. By a long-shot.
  10. Me at 40 definitely beats two of me at 20.
*   "90% of everything is crap" - Gene Roddenberry

Sep 15, 2008

Please, no more...

... superheroes who can stop a bus with their bare hands without being pushed backwards (on their no-tread booties, no less.)

"Collectors Edition" magazines. I'm supposed to keep People's Best (and Worst) Dressed in a vacuum-sealed bat-cave, in case there's a Hannah Montana shortage in the future?

correcting me when I use 'I' instead of 'me' as the object of the verb. There's a good reason you have mastered the various uses of the first person, Spanky. It's because you are alone most of the time.

antioxidants. What did oxygen ever do to you?

"lol". A simple "nice" says it all. If you send me a topless shot from the UK Sun, I don't reply with "ptik" (pup-tent in khakis) do I?

...loot bags. I need my kids fighting about the ownership of candy they're not supposed to be eating like I need pinata-themed underwear.

...Tudors. Any show that doesn't portray Henry VIII as a fat, bearded ponce, holding a turkey drumstick is obviously not based on historical fact.

...Legend. This is the most embarrassingly undead album ever. To call this cult collection 'repetitive' and 'unwelcome' is an insult to Barney. The reggae equivalent of cranking Dark Side of the Moon - in its entirety - at every party, pub and outdoor event of the year. Owners of this album should have their citizenships revoked, sent to Jamaica, and forced to busk Lynyrd Skynyrd songs after midnight in Kingston.  Say what you want about Tupac, he at least releases new shit every six months or so. Get up, Stand up, Change the f*cking disc.