A Pirate Looks At Forty (and hates it)

Last week, I turned forty. I know this, because the age on my profile went from 39 on Tuesday to 40 on Wednesday. I had a good time. On the previous Saturday, my friends took me to dinner. On the actual day of my birthday, we hooked up at a local pub to drink beers, shoot Tuaca, sing karaoke and toast to this, my fortieth year. I drank many beers, I shot mucho Tuacas, and ripped through a version of 'Mack The Knife' the world has not seen since Mr. Bobby Darin himself. It was good enough to get me into the finals, and a shot at one thousand clams. All in all, a most successful night, and a memorable birthday.

The next day, reality set in.

The absolute last remaining vestige of my youth had past. I was now 40. Forty. FORTY? Great Mensruating Christ, FORTY! AAAAAHHHHHHGGGGHHHHHRRRRR( insert man crying, drooling and shitting himself here.)

In The 40 Year Old Virgin, Paul Rudd said "Forty is the new 20." This spoken like the man who has never had the Ghost Of Forty's Here stick his reptilian cock right up the ass for a round of How'd Ya Like THAT One, Cocksuckah?

I don't LIKE forty, and I've been here seven days. (And is all this spelling of numerals okay with the AP Stylebook? Journalism students, please comment.) I'd ask my first wife about turning forty, but she's probably still not too happy I bailed a month before she turned 30.

I had to answer the age question from my insurance provider today, and that's what really set me off. Actually answering the question, ".. and your age?" Hey, my age is Fuck You. My age is kiss my slighty bent, still packs the bidness over 30 peckerstick, that's my age, Eunice.

I said '40', and it tasted like Jagermeister in my mouth.

Don't really know how to deal. Never thought I'd get here. Never thought I'd get to 27, 30, 33 or 35, either. And now this.

Like Mickey Mantle said, "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd've taken better care o' myself."

Barkeep, another Tuaca.. with the senior discount.

I Got Your Valentine.. Right Here

I don't DO Valentine's Day. I mean, I used to; come on, we all did. But Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, no sooner have we put Santa's fat ass away until September than Hallmark, See's, Victoria's Secret and Captain Cock's Dildo Clearance Center bust out with commercials telling you what a useless, cheap piece of shit you are if you don't shell out for 'that special someone'.

You know what? I tell my 'special someone' every day that I love them. I text them at work to inquire about their day. At the afore mentioned Santa Day, I go overboard. I send cards whenever. So, I feel pretty secure when I say, 'Honey, Valentine's Day is boo-shit.' And why the hell is it all aimed at guys? Women can't participate? Wasn't that what all those ugly broads in the sixties burning their not-bought-at-Victoria's-Secret bras was about? Hey, my lady sent me roses at work last year, and it knocked the other girls out. You could tell they'd never bought their man flowers. And, f you if think a guy getting flowers is gay; I like flowers.

Besides, I set aside a day as 'I Love You, Baby' day; now, that's probably kinda gay. But the price of roses is a lot cheaper.

Greetings from Rexland, USA.

This is my introductory blog entry, and wow, I haven't felt this great since my doctor told me that I wasn't rejecting my kidney, I had an infection due to manscaping! Thank you, you're great..
By now, you're asking, 'Who is this jagoff, and why am I reading this?' and, my friend, you would not be the first. I desperately need some sort of creative outlet, or I swear, I'm gonna go Blade II on someone's ass. So, bear with me as this little venture takes shape.