How did I miss Beiber's dong?
And what this phubbing shit?
I need a millennial au pair. This struggle is real. (Please kick me in the tit if I ever use that phrase again.)
I'm a Gen Xer. Don't ask a lady's age, fools, be a true invasive American and Google it. I've been Colorado Daily's bitch for 11 years now, if that helps, and it wasn't my first job out of college. Plus I have a toddler. (If math is also not your friend, high-five.)
But how did I miss Beiber's dong?
Sure, mini spawn takes time, then there's that 4,000 hour work week (newspapers, man) and trying to eradicate rodents from my house. The tiny bit of free time left is set aside for pounding wine on the front porch and throwing shit at squirrels. (The future's so bright.)
After a heady 40 years of partying (I'm not that old), I've found that my body and brain are cruising in the decrepit lane on a motorized cart. (Repeat after me: left lane is for passing. You'll get there.) I've thrown my back out three times in the last decade (sweet juicy Jehovah) and I broke my foot again two weeks ago. (Third time's a charm: left foot's complete with screws and plates and a twice-broken right completes one sexy pair of cankles.)
Speaking of deterioration, see that column mug? That was taken like six years ago. I now have permanent plastic cateyes because fetuses don't reveal that childbirth forbids ever wearing contacts again.
So when I'm not investigating the Beiber bone, my new plan is to track down whoever can give me robot parts. When I'm 90, giving Husband No. 6 a handy under the table, we can't have my back giving out.* I figure by the time I hit age feeble, you smart millennials will spearhead how to slurp my organs and bones out through the back of my neck (like Marcellus Wallace's soul), and insert some working parts the same way. (Also, start working on some sparkly silver eyes for me. These baby blues want a wardrobe change.)
But don't cry for me, seraphinas. I'm still a sexy beast. I shine on like a double-Diamond on the outside. I don't have gray hair or wrinkles. I'd still spank my ass and plow this piece. (Get a room.) It's just the insides that are pickled, shriveled and crumbling.
I like to blame my inner deterioration on my size. More than a half-dozen feet tall, I come complete with curves. Science told me over a blunt last night that frail bones can have a hard time holding up large jugs, among other things.
"It's like how big dogs get hip displacement and kick the bucket at age 6," Science said, exhaling a rainbow of smoke, "and little dogs yip on until 20-plus."
So since Gavin Griffin is in absentia this week for his "Millecular" column, I thought I'd give you millennials a sweet taste of what to look forward to — and hear some sound advice like this: Take calcium via Tums (two birds, one chalky stone), start pilfering grandpa's Viagra, don't open a Macy's credit card, frequently flush your organs with agua.
Lastly, don't break those young bones. It hurts with pressure changes and when I shave my legs, I often nick the screws that hold my left foot together.
I'll be here while you barf.
In conclusion, I need a pimp cane with a snake that has ruby eyes. If you know where I can find one, fax me at: 303-449-9358.
And stop Googling me, perverts. I'm somewhere between 20 and 40.
*I jest, Husband.