Thirty

This post is dedicated to any of you who might be celebrating your thirtieth birthday today. The big Three Oh. The dreaded 30. The end of childhood, the beginning of being an adult. No more excuses, you’re only looked upon as a kid if you still look like one. Give it up, brother. Or sister. You’re on your own now. Nobody’s covering for you.

But there’s a bright note, all you new grown-ups. Welcome to the Republican party. That’s what happens, you know. You wake up one morning on the dot of thirty and you realize you have something to lose. Something you’ve been accumulating all your life. Your wealth, your self-respect, your confidence in your ability to earn, and you want to protect that. Don’t be glum, it happens to the best of us.

It happened to me. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I was born a Democrat. My lovely lady from California said that I must have had a strange mother. And indeed I did. My mother was one train stop short of a cell meeting. And I was her student. Not just in politics, but in sensibilities. I was the only boy on the hill who didn’t hunt or fish. That’s how I learned to fight. My mother hated it, but I had to defend myself. I was surrounded by Republicans and all they stand for – Bibles, guns, fishing rods… all the paraphernalia. But I spurned it. I clung to my mama’s socialist apron strings. That’s what we called Liberals in those days. Socialists.

But I grew out of it, and here I am, to welcome you to the club. As a Republican, you’re not doing too well right now, and I’m sorry. You’ve lost a lot of money in the financial meltdown. It’s especially sad for you because just yesterday, as a Democrat, you must have been rejoicing. You got what you want. The come-uppance of all those rich bastards who cheat their way into billions on Wall Street. Wall comes tumbling down. And there you stand, a new, wet-behind-the-ears-Republican, who doesn’t know how to get out of the way.

But listen…at least you’re not Black. How do I know you’re not Black? Black is not in my Demographic. You guys are Libs. The Blacks are plain old Dems. You’re not in the same club, people. You don’t read the same mags, listen to the same music, go to the same churches, or read the same blogs.

If you were Black, you would be getting the short end of socialism as we have it in the USA. The Blacks are being robbed blind by Social Security. Blacks on the average don’t live as long as Whites. Yet they have to pay into the system for as long as the Whites do. Then the Blacks die, and all over Florida, the Whites are left walking from their condos, down to the main drags, to collect their checks and their ice cream cones.

So be thankful that you’re now an old white guy. Well, not so old. Wait till you’re forty. I hear in California they tell death jokes on your fortieth birthday. But they live fast in California, and they burn out in the sun.

When you woke up thirty this morning, I’m sure your first thought was that the goddam government has ruined the country. Fiddled with Wall Street in such stupid ways – how did Fanny ever get her fat ass on the government payroll? And where the fuck did Freddy come from? He just popped out of the box behind Fanny, like Ken popped out behind Barbie.

While you were brushing your teeth, I know you were gnashing them over the fool Fed rules that forced mortgages on the impoverished – people with no money to pay them back. They probably always knew that when the bubble burst they could lay the tab on you.

As a Republican, I’m sure your stomach was tied in a knot over breakfast at the thought that FedGov has nationalized Wall Street. Not like soldiers, with guns, but like mommies with sponges. “Oh, poor baby, what a mess you made. Let’s just take those graham crackers and marshmallows away from you. Mommy will make the smores. You sit over there and wait till she serves them. Don’t worry, Mommy will clean it all up. Oh, and don’t go into the kitchen anymore. If you want anything, ask Mommy. She’ll make it for you.”

Or, after you went up on the curb and hit that mailbox, “Okay, kid, you messed up with the car. If you have to go anyplace, ask me. I’ll take you.” So you handed over the keys. They were a little heavy to carry anyway.

You could accept that before, but now you’re in charge of your own life. You, baby, not the man in the moon, YOU. You want a government that recognizes that – a government that takes care of things, without running your life.

Today, if anyone hands you a fluffy, frilly, touchy-feely party hat, decline it in favor of a thinking cap. You now belong to the party of thought. Congratulations and have a very happy birthday. You can treat yourself to a fine time out – you’re a Republican now.