THREE A’s OF BEING MIDDLE AGED

 

MIDDLE AGED ASS

 

 

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of young women are wearing shorts or sweat pants with the word “PINK” plastered in large letters across their ass. I’m sure that if you’re under 25 it probably is pink but I don’t understand why you would feel compelled to advertise that. I think I’m going to market a line of sweat pants for middle aged men like myself that has “SAGGY” printed across the ass, or perhaps, “COTTAGE CHEESE.”

 

MIDDLE AGED ARITHMETIC

 

 

Speaking of being middle aged, I have an age related math question for all of you math whizzes out there. I was thinking yesterday about the fact that I turn 50 this year and my son turns 25. While the half century and quarter century marks are great milestones for us, it does bring up an interesting conundrum. Every year prior to this, I have been more than twice as old as my son. This year I will be exactly twice as old as my son. Every year from this point forward I will be less than twice as old as my son. I like to think this means that my son will be aging at a much faster rate than I will from now on. Doesn’t that make sense?

 

MIDDLE AGED ANGST

 

 

And speaking of turning 50, I’d like to ask for your feedback concerning how I should celebrate my 50^th birthday. I hang out with a group of three other guys at church. We are all within a few months of each other in age. When we all turned 45, we went sky diving together. We’d like to top that for our 50^th birthday celebration.

 

We all saw the movie “Wild Hogs” and thought it might be fun to rent Harleys and drive from Tulsa to Vegas and back. However, we were discussing who each of us most closely resembled in the movie and the other three unanimously (and very quickly) declared that I was the William H. Macy character “Dudley”, so I’m not sure I want to hang out with them anymore.

 

Plan #2 is to go white water rafting in Wyoming. Whatever we do, we want it to be a desperate attempt at reclaiming our youth while putting our aging bodies in mortal danger.

 

Any suggestions?

 

HONEY BUNNY WANTS TO BE MY FRIEND

 

 

A couple of months ago I was assimilated into the collective. Yes, I can admit it…I opened a MySpace account.

 

Since that time a veritable bevy of hot, sexually curious, 22 yr old nurses/students/actresses/waitresses/massage therapists have flooded my inbox with requests to be my friend. Honey Bunny is only the latest in long line of sultry vixens lined up for a slice of Cold Skivvies.

 

And really, you can’t blame them. Perhaps it’s the way my stomach creeps seductively over my belt like Jell-O oozing out of pantyhose, or maybe it’s the way my eyebrows stand straight up like possessed party favors. Perhaps it’s the sunlight-like yellow hue of my toenails, or maybe it’s just the way the moonlight glistens off my bald spots that makes these women want to rip off my shirt and run their slender fingers through my luxurious back hair.

 

I don’t know what it is, but it’s apparent that this schoolgirl is hot for teacher.

 

One of my friends here at work had the nerve to suggest that these girls aren’t interested in me at all and if I clicked on their profiles I would be re-directed to porn or adult dating sites. Is that not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? I know the truth, he’s just jealous that Honey Bunny wants me to be her Pooh Bear.

 

Crap, I just clicked on Honey Bunny’s profile and I was taken to desperate_horny_middleaged_men.com. Man, that really takes the inflation out of everything that was…well…inflated.

 

Actually, on this Valentines Day and every other Valentines Day I thank God I’m not out there searching for Honey Bunny. Even though it may be old fashioned, and even though it may be passé, I am very glad to be able to define myself as a “very happily married man.”

 

I’m fortunate to have found a smart, beautiful woman who has the grace (and courage) to overlook the expanding waist line and the bushy eyebrows and all of the other rough edges and love me for who I am.

 

That’s worth more than a million Honey Bunnies.

 

Happy Valentines Day babe.

 

 

 

 SUPER TROOPERS

 

 

I’m a very happy man. The Oklahoma Highway Patrol has started issuing tickets for driving at, or below, the speed limit in the passing lane.

 

All I can say is praise Jesus and it’s about f*#%ing time!

 

The OHP (that’s “trooper” to you) explained that emergency vehicles have been having a tough time getting down the highways in Oklahoma because of the dildos parking their cars at the speed limit in the passing lane. (Ok… they didn’t actually use the word “dildos” but it’s appropriate).

 

It’s really pretty simple. If you don’t want to ever exceed the speed limit, no one is forcing you too. Just please stay in the right lane so that those of us who are hell bent on dying in our vehicles at 100 mph can get around you.

 

One of the local TV stations interviewed the first few people who got tickets and as you can imagine, there was a huge outpouring of righteous indignation.

 

“I don’t understand! I got a ticket for driving the speed limit?!?!? This doesn’t make any sense! It’s my duty as a citizen to drive slowly in the passing lane to keep other drivers from speeding!”

 

I’m not making that comment up. The “interviewee” was an older gentleman in a land yacht (obviously) who was turning some very interesting shades of red. I hope he didn’t have a heart attack though, because the ambulance wouldn’t have been able to get to him because people just like him are driving too slowly in the passing lane!

 

If I could find a trooper I’d kiss them right on the mouth, and I’d do it at 90 mph.

 

Now, if they’ll just start giving tickets to people who stop at the end of expressway entrance ramps I’ll be an even happier man.

 

I’M COOLER THAN YOU BECAUSE I LISTEN TO “CRADLE OF FILTH” AND YOU DON’T

 

I have a confession to make. I despise people who think they are superior to other people because of their taste in music. I first ran into this type of person when I was a music major in college. These were the guys who would stay after music theory class and endlessly debate the subtle nuances in the styles of various 20^th century composers. They would roll their eyes and display intense pity if some poor student declared that they liked something the other students had determined was passé. These people are pompous weenies.

 

After graduating from college I discovered people who act the same way about their tastes in popular music. These people are also pompous weenies.

 

One of my favorite movies of all times is “High Fidelity” with John Cusack and Jack Black. Oddly enough, the reason for this may be that their two characters epitomize the type of people who make me want to beat my head against the wall. When John Cusack asks Jack Black who his musical influences are and he replies “you wouldn’t recognize them, they’re mostly German” I’m suddenly back in music school listening to the theory geeks posture all over again.

 

Music is an intensely personal thing. Most of us identify most closely with the music of our youth. My high school and college years were in the 70’s so I still enjoy Credence Clearwater, the Eagles, Iron Butterfly, etc. In fact, I once caused my father to go into a near homicidal rage because I played “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” 37 times in a row. I did not grow up in the era of rap music so most rap music makes me want to put a bullet in my head. However, there are millions of people who do like rap and that’s OK (just please pull your pants up.)

 

I’ve noticed a trend recently in books, blogs, movies, etc. where more and more esoteric pop-culture references are made while the writers wink at their audiences with smug self righteousness because of their obvious coolness and disdain for the masses. I don’t know if this is a marketing ploy, or if people have no other means of pumping up their self esteem, but the trend pisses me off.

 

All I can say is (and I can’t stress this enough) these people are pompous weenies.

 

My theory is; if you like it, listen to it. I don’t care if your favorite album is “Mister Rogers Sings the Blues,” if it floats your boat, I’m cool with that. I’ve also found my musical tastes changing over the years. For example, as a teenager I would have never listened to Johnny Cash because my friends didn’t like him and my father did. Now I find that I’m fascinated by his voice. It’s kind of shame I missed out on years of enjoying his music because of what other people thought.

 

My son bought me an IPOD and loaded it down with music he thought I might like or would enjoy being exposed too. I hadn’t heard 80% of it before and I’m like a kid in a candy store nibbling at all of it. Most of it I like, some of it I don’t, but I’m not letting my peers or any music critic tell me what to enjoy.

 

I referenced “Cradle of Filth” in the title because it’s a band one of our former foster children listened too. I didn’t care for the music, but you’ve got to admit, that’s a great name. I hope to someday start a rock band called “Discernibly Turgid.”

 

So…enjoy what you enjoy, hate what you hate, it’s all good.

 

However, if you ever found boy bands to be irritating, you’ll get a kick out of this…