Jason Johnson is a member of Peanut Gallery Comics. He lives around here someplace.
- Member for
- 3 years 1 week
I still haven't mastered this whole grocery-shopping thing. I don't just mean finding the best deal on groceries, although that's part of it, because apparently our economy is run by vengeful fourth-grade math teachers.
To hear some of my classmates tell it, corporal punishment is the best thing that ever happened to them. This means, of course, that if any of them should step out of line — like, say, offering to split the check evenly when you had only coffee — you are legally entitled to punch them in the kidneys. By the time I went to grade school in the early 1970s, corporal punishment was largely a relic practiced only by fascist, psychopathic, sadistic troglodytes, which is another way of saying "gym teachers."
Dear Karlie Kloss, Hey, Karlie, it's Jason again. I write this letter so that I may renew my vow to love you forever, or at least until you get old and/or fat, but that should go without saying. Forgive me for making our relationship public, but you haven't been answering my letters, social-media messages, texts or phone calls. It might be easier if I had your phone number and didn't have to try randomly calling strangers.
Although I admire writers like Dave Barry and Will Durst, I always swore that I would never follow their lead and become a columnist who drones on about what an old geezer he's become. And with that bit of ado, I now present my "old-geezer" column. They say that life begins at 40. If that's the case, then apparently I was born with gray hair and an elevated cholesterol level. Six years after my "birth" I still have my baby fat, which is somehow composed of 42 years' worth of cheeseburgers.
I'd like to take you back to a more innocent time, a time before Internet trolls, flash mobs, or Michael Bay films. The phones were still rotary and Republican presidential debates came without a parental advisory. Television had only three major stations, plus PBS, the "sometimes y" of networks. Schools had no metal detectors, and the only drug that parents gave their kids was sugar, often in the form of a breakfast cereal or perhaps a Flintstone-shaped "vitamin."