Facts on Turning 44

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You now have strong opinions on some or all of the following: insurance, mortgages, meat, backyard grilling, and Kids Today.

You can never lift anything ever again.

Coffee is either the Most Important Fluid or nigh unto poison.

You have a special place for your keys and they are never there.

You are starting to laugh at King of the Hill less and agree with what Hank says more.

You have an 800-square-foot lawn and a riding mower.

You have woken up behind a Denny’s with someone’s wig and half of a roll of paper towels and no memory of how you got there.

You can see through aluminum.

You stop blinking.

Your car is full of bats. Both the animal and the baseball kind.

You spend more time gazing into the Void. It whispers sweet secrets and mediocre cheesecake recipes.

It’s following you again.

You’re on a first-name basis with your dentist.

You can never look directly at it. What does it want?

You’ve started paying attention to your tires.

Everything you try to read turns into Zalgo text.

The arms. So many arms. Closing your eyes makes no difference.

All of your mugs and t-shirts start having zany-but-tame sayings on them.

Contemporary music has become objectively inferior to what was popular when you were 20.

Your soul. It bleeds. What will you become when you are empty? Only the Muppets can say.

BREAKTHROUGH IN CHILDCARE

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The problem with child leashes is that they demean all involved. But how to keep your energetic preschooler close by and out of that stack of shirts the Target lady is folding for the fifth time since lunch? You only have two shoes, and once you’ve thrown them both, your kid knows he’s free to bolt for the digital cameras. The solution is simple. BACKPACKS.

But not just ANY backpacks. No, backpacks filled with scraps of cast iron. Kid extra-rowdy? pack that backpack full of cast iron. Feeling a little under the weather? Take some out! The beauty of this system is its flexibility. Also, the cast iron is scraps, so it’s GREEN.

Still not convinced? The backpacks will give the little ankle biters cardio to work off the Big Mac you bought them for lunch. It’s like getting a 4-year head start on joining a soccer team! AND, when they grumble about how cleaning up after themselves is too much effort, let them take off the backpack for chores! They’ll get a second wind!

I’ll be taking orders as soon as I get back from the scrapyard.

Ways I Have Referred to Dan Hill’s “Sometimes When We Touch”

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  • Wet Kleenex
  • Vat of middle-school girl tears
  • Beef jerky soggifier
  • Testosterone nullifier
  • That thing we should engrave onto a golden disk and shoot into space to serve as a warning to any aliens who find the naked pictures on the “Voyager” spacecraft

HOW RELIGIOUS FANTASY ROMANCE NOVELS WOULD PLAY OUT IN REAL LIFE

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STOIC, RUGGED AMISH FARMER: I need a goodly wife to mend my breeches, cook my meals, and sometimes help me raise barns.

CAREER WOMAN WHO HAS LOST SIGHT OF THE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE: I am sorry, Strangely Compelling Amish Dude, but I want different things out of life and romance and your buggy doesn’t have a USB port for my iPhone.

*THEY WISH EACH OTHER WELL AND GO THEIR SEPARATE WAYS*

<FIN>

Top Ten Rejected Children’s Books

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10. One Day Everyone You Know will be Dead

9. Touchy the Friendly Clown Visits a Daycare

8. Monsanto Presents Chuckles, The Cheerful GMO Soybean

7. Timmy and the Corporate Campaign Contribution Slush Fund

6. Where Walmart Sneakers Come From

5. Across the Tracks from Sesame Street

4. The Magic School Bus at the Rendering Plant

3. Baby’s First Beauty Contest

2. Let’s Draw the Powerpuff Girls with Pronounced Bosoms

1. Why Uncle Roger is No Longer Allowed to Babysit

Toothache Chronicles Part 1

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The painkillers have inspired me to keep a medical log. First entry: “Becalmed for the seventh day. Crew becoming restless, starting to build makeshift whales for them to harpoon out of the sailcloth. First Mate has taken to clinging to the figurehead. He calls her ‘Lucy van Pelt’ and keeps trying to feed her hardtack. Many sailors stricken with the scurvy. May God help us through this trial.”

“It is time to accept that we are lost in this godforsaken jungle. The Temple of Orel-Hersch, and its precious map-stone, stays tantalizingly out of reach. Dangerously low on supplies, we have been forced to eat Timmy, the spunky little boy who stowed away in my steamer trunk, longing for adventure. The guides have all wandered off, either to be eaten by the tigers, or to eat them in turn. It’s hard to figure out which from the screams in the night. Should any kind soul find this, tell my wife she may never remarry, and tell my uncle that he was wrong, there are no bears for his circus here. Only clowns.”

“medical log, final entry. Doc says our hyperthrusters are destroyed, and we all have Space-Flesh Eating Bacteria. Soon we will be pools of protoplasm on the floor of a wrecked spaceship on a desolate moon no one cares about. I am typing this with my feet, as my hands fell off. Abd my dose. The one thing that brings me solace is the fact that I set my Tivo to record all the episodes of Space All My Children While I was gone. I can now dissolve a happy man. Glub.”