But Can I Still Read Comic Books?
Via Fark I find this list of things a man should never do past the age of 30.
Some are perfectly sound:
Ask a policeman, "You ever shoot anybody with that thing?"Ask a woman, "Hey, you got a license for that ass?"
Skip.
Take a camera to a nude beach.
Let his father do his taxes.
Tap on the glass.
Use the word collated on his resume.
But others make no sense to me. For example, why not
Hold his lighter up at a concert.
Shout out a response to "Are you ready to rock?"
Name pets after Middle Earth characters.
Publicly greet friends by shouting, "What's up, you whore?"
Call "shotgun" before getting in a car.
Dispute someone else's call of "shotgun."
Purchase fireworks.
Say "two points" every time he throws something in the trash.
Purchase home-brewing paraphernalia.
Request extra sprinkles.
Air drum.
Choose 69 as his jersey number.
Eat Oreo cookies in stages.
The John Travolta point-to-the-ceiling-point-to-the-floor dance move; also that one from Pulp Fiction.
Refer to his girlfriend's breasts as "the twins."
Own a vanity plate.
Well... I have many, many, many very good reasons not to refer to my significant other's, erm, chestal region, as "the twins," and I would never do so, but as a theoretical notion divorced from any reference to actual chestal appurtanances belonging to any person either real or fictional, the joke still makes me, um... titter. As for a vanity plate, I think that Buckethead, who is even further from 30 than I am, would argue that a well chosen vanity plate can really hit the spot. Also, I have air drummed, purchased homebrewing paraphenelia, made 69 jokes, disco danced, and done the "two points" and "shotgun" routines all within the last month. And what's wrong with that, really?
What kind of a world are we living in if a grown man can't write the name "Heywood Jablome" on a petition, or make the same old funny-every-time joke whenever someone says they live in "Bangor"? Isn't this America? And isn't our crass brashness as much a part of our heritage as is the British stiff upper lip, German punctiliousness, French superiority, or the way Canadians think they're being funny all the time?
I tell you what... every time you don't slap a "kick me" sign on your buddy, belch the alphabet, bump chests after a touchdown, urinate on someone's hedges, wear a backwards baseball cap in the Sistine Chapel, or loudly proclaim "yeah, I'd hit that" when looking at the Venus de Milo, you're hurting America. Why do you hate our freedom?
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§ 11 Comments
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The first three in your
The first three in your disputed list are, I think, good recommendations.
Some of those, I'm safe on, merely because I never did them. Like Oreos, or the "two points" thing. I do, however, have several methods of consuming animal crackers and fig newtons that are analogous.
Air drumming is probably counter-indicated at any age.
As are:
2. Use a wallet that is fastened with Velcro.
23. Wake up to a "morning zoo."
40. Mist up during Aerosmith's "Dream On."
54. Read The Fountainhead.
However, one should always buy fireworks, and I don't see what Fark has against whippets.
B,
B,
I'll add "shoes fastened with velcro". I learned to tie my shoes reliably when I was about, oh, 4.
I also feel that public wear of sweatpants in a demonstratively non-exercisory capacity be grounds for swift -yea, immediate- execution.
GL, I have to veto the
GL, I have to veto the sweatpants deal. Because I've come around to believing they are the garment of choice for an early-Sunday bagel-and-paper run, or a quick trip to the package store... um, liquor store, for those of you not in Massachusetts. Jeans etc are just too much trouble!!
J,
J,
In the interest of maintaining inter-Ministerial harmony, I am willing to compromise. Somewhat. I propose a geographic/distance factor from your home.
For example, if I went to retreive the mail or the Sunday paper, both of which are deposited at the end of my driveway, and just trooped out of the house in the sweatpants I already had on, I don't think I should be executed.
In the case of urban dwellers such as yourself, maybe we can use the distance from your home to your destination in the cold urban core, equivalent to a suburban driveway, as a sweatpant tolerance zone?
Another option might be to use rubber bullets to dissuade the sweatpantsians from a future wearing, and a lethal dose of justice.
GL,
GL,
agreed.
I won't mention the time two weeks ago when I went to the local WholeFoods in sweats and a hoodie with a cigarette burn in it that I've owned since 1993, which also on that day concealed a certain provocative t-shirt given to me by Buckethead.
I am pleased to know that you
I am pleased to know that you wear that tshirt, even if it is concealed, superman-like, under your everyday clothing.
However we hammer out a final
However we hammer out a final treaty, I'm glad that we can agree on at least this core principle:
Sweatpants in the restaurant, particularly in the all-you-can-overeat buffet, are flippin' wrong. Just wrong.
And to bring it back to the post topic, past age 30 you really ought to know that it's not ok to do that.
GL: agreed. in full.
GL: agreed. in full.
B: I do wear it, especially around the house. It's my baking and brewing shirt of the moment. And given its theme, it'll be especially apropos later this month when I make a batch of California Steam beer I affectionately dub Cleveland Steamer.
As a girl, if I may butt in
As a girl, if I may butt in here, I believe that your right to wear sweatpants should have no boundaries. I say "wear away!" Unless I see you in them. Then it's all, "Eww! What a slob!"
Just thought you should know.
I would expect no less. When
I would expect no less. When I wear sweats I'm not trying to win any pageants. If I weren't married, I'd NEVER leave the house in them. But since I gots nobody to impress except one person, I am willing to sweats it up when the mood strikes.
At risk, of course, of ridicule, jeering, and beatings by GeekLethal.
Myself, I rarely ever wear
Myself, I rarely ever wear sweats outside the house. I did, a couple weeks ago, drive over to the 711 in a pair of blue plaid flannel pants to satisfy one of the last of my wife's pregnancy-induced food cravings at 7:30 in the morning.
Happily, GL is hundreds of miles away.