How I Am Sure I Will Not Get My Social Security Cash Cow
To my American readers, the following may disturb you and haunt you. To all foreign readers, human and alien alike, you may not be so much “disturbed” as “amused.” Please read on and form your own opinion. If you are still having trouble, immediately consult The Magic Eight Ball. (But don’t mistakenly consult “an” eight ball. It must be “The” and it must be “Magic.”)
So far as I can figure, when it comes time to collect that sweet cash you have been forced to put away your whole working life (Social Security), the generation that follows your generation will be running the government. For example, the WWII generation are currently the big winners at the Social Security Slot Machine and the Baby Boomers (the spawn of the WWII generation) are in office. This is not a hard fast rule. We are talking generalities. Also, don’t use our Vice President as the litmus test. Though Cheney looks as though he could spin some sweet first-hand tales of The Great War, he is really only about 26 years old. He just smokes a lot and that tends to age a person prematurely.
So, using my well thought out and highly researched theory, it should follow that my generation will be sustained by the generation currently in high school. Let’s call them The iGenteration. And it is exactly because the iGeneration will be dolling out my dollars, that I will not be getting any of these fabled dollars.
(This is all assuming that Social Security has not already been sacked by the time I hit the front of the queue.)
The problem is that the iGeneration are not smart enough to figure out a system as complex as Social Security. I know this because the iGeneration has yet to figure out pants. No generation ever before has had a problem with pants. What is worse is that their problem with pants is two fold.
First fold: How to wear them. You’ve all seen the excess of boxers popping out at every turn. Oddly enough, the women folk of the iGeneration seem to have given up underwear in retaliation. Sure, you can accuse me of being a pervert for this. But you’d be wrong. I assure you I would rather look at this or this for a sustained period of time a la “Clockwork Orange” than get one more flash of some girl’s tattoo-buttcrack one-two punch. It’s not that I am trying to look, again, I’d rather not. It’s that iGeneration has trouble wearing pants. I guess we all take pant wearing for granted.
Second fold: What pants are. Quite often these mis-worn pants may not even qualify as “pants.” Instead they are somewhere between pants and shorts. Almost as if these kids were accidentally shopping at a midget store. (I don’t know if such stores even really exist, but I don’t know where these kids are buying so many pairs of shants either. And a “midget store” is a place for midgets to buy clothes, not a place for the general populace to buy midgets…just be be clear.)
So, in closing my fellow Xers and Ysers, we will be receiving no Social Security money because either a) Bush will take it away from you in the next four years, or b) the iGeneration will screw it up because they can’t even figure out what pants are, let alone how to wear them.
I didn’t know The Nudge’s girlfriend had a website. Dang! He’s hot! (Is that why his tongue hangs out?)
Absolutely genius: Oddly enough, the women folk of the iGeneration seem to have given up underwear in retaliation.
Quite possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever read on a blog.
And on a side note, No, Robinson’s-May (at the Westminster Mall, sometime in the last 6 months…) I, in fact, *don’t* belong in a thong. Contrary to what the posters in their lingerie department might otherwise suggest.
Did you just bash Mr. Winkle? Mr. Winkle freaking RULES.
No. I am not bashing Mr. Winkle. He definitely has star status. But there are many things in life that can only be taken in small doses. Charles Nelson Riley is a good example. If I sit down to watch old game show reruns (which I do; and advocate as a sweet past time if you are looking for a hobby), I’ll take Chuck over Charo or Richard Dawson any damn day. (Note: Richard Dawnson is quite adept at brandishing a pinky ring, plus he gets to kiss everybody, and he may be the king of not-so-subtle innuendo, which puts him wicked high on the list of guest stars I hope to see…but he’s not Chaz Riles.) So, as often as I am screaming out “Riley to block. RILEY TO BLOCK, IDIOT!” I can only take C. N. R. for two or three episodes before his schtick becomes too much. Likewise with Senor Winkle. He kicks ample ass. But if I have to stare at him for say 18, 24 or 36 hours a stretch, I am pretty sure at some point I am going to convince myself that he is trying to kill me…just like Charles Nelson Riley wanted to once. So, as much as I worship pop culture anomalies, all I am saying is I’d rather brainwash myself into a Mr. Winkle-Lordleiter murder plot than have to endure one more unwarranted butt crack. And just for the record, all of the love handles pouring out of pants (or shants) are over the line as well. Be happy with who you are…but dress appropriately.
Long live Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Winkle freaking RULES.