Birthdays Suck

This last weekend I celebrated my 26th birthday. Unfortunately, I was too broke to really do anything because birthdays are way too expensive. Earlier in the week I had to renew my driver’s license. As much as it sucked having to pay $20, it was far worse waking up at the wee hour of 9:00 a.m. only to wait for over an hour at the DDS. Lucky for me, I was able to secure a spot between the creepy guy who asked every young woman, “Is this your first time getting your license?” and the lady who pestered everyone else with, “Is that my number? Does anyone know where window three is?”

Next, I had to renew the registration on my car, which is the nice way of saying I had to fork over my meager earnings to the state of Georgia. To put icing on the birthday cake I didn’t get, I reside in Fulton County, which has one of the highest tax rates in the state. I had to shove out nearly $200 just for a little green sticker. If I was Jeff Foxworthy, this is where I would make a comment about how “if you have to avoid making the payment on your car… to pay for the registration (as I did)… you might be a redneck.” Thankfully, this was the first year I actually did it on time. In previous years, I had to wait because I was even more broke (see: paying your bookie). Sure enough, each year I waited to renew my registration, I was pulled over by a cop and given a $150 ticket. Somehow society always finds a way to make you pay for being poor.

I remember a time when I actually looked forward to my birthday - it meant cake and presents. People actually went out of their way to spend money on something for me. Now I’m forced to give up everything I have just to remain legal. What the hell happened? No one warned me as I celebrated my sixth birthday having the time of my life at Chuck E. Cheese that in 20 years I was going to find myself miserable every time August 10 rolled around.

It leads me to belief that one of two things needs to happen. Either we find a way to make birthdays more exciting for adults or we find a way to ruin them for children. Since ruining the lives of children is probably the only thing I enjoy as an adult, I’m going for the latter.

We need to prepare children for the gloom that birthdays provide as adults. So, I propose a birthday tax for children. So many people make such a big deal about illegal immigrants not paying taxes, but no one ever comments on the billions of tax dollars that children avoid paying each year, and they are legal citizens! Every child should be required to pay $100 for each year they get older. The money can be put towards building the future jails that will be needed when 1.5 million of them are arrested for drug convictions each year.

Next, I propose we eliminate birthday parties. They provide children with way too much joy, and, even worse, they provide grown adults with the excuse to pursue careers as clowns. This would also relieve a huge burden for parents. As a childless male, I only have to dread my own birthday, but parents across the nation must also deal with the birthdays of their children. Each year, billions of dollars are spent on birthday cakes, balloons, presents, and alcohol (not for the children, but for the adults that have to sit through hours of “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” and “Break the Pinnate”). This money could be used for much better things, such as renewing the registration on your car.

Overall, this birthday was not that bad. I was fortunate enough to spend it in New Orleans with my lovely girlfriend; however, I’m still without my much hinted at iPhone. I even had dinner at Emeril’s, which is about as far as you can get from my usual diet of chicken nuggets and Buffalo wings. While the dinner was amazing, it just added one further note to the fact that I am getting older. I’m at that point where I must celebrate my birthday like an adult, which just means everything costs a whole lot more.

Birthday celebrations as a kid were always somewhere fun or exciting, like The Broward County Landfill (my mom told me it was Magic Mountain). When I turned 18 I went to a strip club, which ruined every image I ever had of how wonderful strip clubs actually were. You would be amazed at how many of those women are able to grow beards. Maybe it has something to do with the lighting? My 21st birthday was apparently really awesome; however, I can only go on what I am told. While I did blackout, it had nothing to do with getting overly drunk (I didn’t even drink that night). Instead, I got hopped up on Smarties®. You would be surprised by the things you will do after congesting three party packs of those tiny little candies and going into a sugar educed psychotic craze (see: making sweet love to your roommate’s pillow). Since then, I have celebrated my birthday mostly at places like Hooters (tell them it’s your birthday any day of the year for one amazing rendition of “Happy Birthday”). Eating at Emeril’s was the equivalent of riding my bike for the first time without training wheels. I’m growing up, and to be honest with you, it is a little scary.

I’m not scared of dying or even growing so old that my body starts to fall apart, and I’m definitely looking forward to the freedom of pooping my pants again. What scares me is the fact that with each year I grow older, I have to pretend even more to be a responsible adult. This means no more sleeping in my Transformers PJs. No longer can I pee on the toilet seat. Worst of all, it makes it that much harder for me to get away with sitting in the parking lot of the local high school, binoculars in hand, while cheerleaders practice across the street.

So happy birthday to me.

Ringback Tones: Holla Back At Ya Caller

The great rap genius, prophet, and possible modern-day Machiavellian, Tupac Shakur once said, “Only God can Judge me” (I’m guessing he read it in some book or something). While Tupac may be right in many cases, we must remind ourselves that we have entered a new age and things have changed in many ways (after all, that was like the 90s). While I agree that I should not judge my fellow neighbors based on their choices in life, sometimes it is unavoidable. I agree that we should not judge people by the color of their skin, unless they are green, and in that case they are probably true illegal aliens. I agree that we should not judge those whose beliefs differ from ours, except for the complete wackos. But, I can not avoid making judgments about others when I hear their choice in Ringback Tones.

In case you are out of the “in” crowd, a Ringback Tone is that little bit of music you hear instead of a ring tone when you call certain people. I personally prefer classical hits, such as “Girls, Girls, Girls” or “Whip It,” but the options are endless with everything from Beethoven to Ying Yang Twins. While I find this development in the history of mankind’s triumphs amusing, I think people need to think twice about choosing their tones.

For example, today I called a friend of mine and boy was I surprised to hear Celine Deon’s “The Power of Love.” This was a guy I respected. I thought he was a guy’s guy that I could drink beers with, and now I come to find out that he is a Celine Deon fan! The way I feel right now must be a lot like how all the other members of Judas Priest felt when they heard Rob Halford was gay (as if the leather outfits didn’t give it away).

Seriously though, this is not the first time I have been caught off guard by the same thing. I understand the novelty in picking a truly ridiculous song with the hopes of amusing your caller, but think about the impression it leaves. Brining up Tupac again, while his song “California Love” is one of my all time favorites, it is probably not the best option for your Ringback Tone. Let’s say you apply for a job, do you really want your prospective employer to relate lyrics like “Fiendin for money and alcohol” or “Out on bail fresh outta jail” to your work ethic? Sure it may help if you are a celebrity like Shia LaBeouf (first celebrity slam on my blog - here I come TMZ!), but if you are an average Joe applying to Wendy's, a song like that might make the manager think otherwise about setting up an interview.

If you are anything like me and you hate phone calls, maybe it might be good to pick a really annoying Ringback Tone. Maybe choose a kid’s song, like Barney’s “I Love You” (a real option with Verizon), or just go for the real brutal and choose “The Canadian National Anthem.” That way you can ensure that anyone who calls you will never make the same mistake again.

Of course, Ringback Tones are just the next step in the cell phone’s role in making the world more annoying. From the very first time a cell phone ring interrupted a movie to the first douche bag that wore a Bluetooth headset, cell phones have constantly pushed the levels of annoying qualities in the world to all time highs. The only way cell phones could make things worse is if they allowed people you don’t even want to talk to, nonetheless see, find you no matter where you are… oh wait...

T.G.I.Fridays

(After writing this, I happened to come across a very funny video by Nick Swardson and friends over at funnyordie.com. The video, I.F.H Mondays, is based on the same premise as my blog. Unfortunately, they came out with it 7 months before me. Normally, I'd be upset, but Swardson is one of my favorite comics, so I'm just happy we think on the same wavelength.)

I like the restaurant T.G.I Fridays, which of course, plays off the classic saying "Thank God it's Friday!"

I think that is a cool concept that should be applied to new restaurants. So I suggest we open F.I.A. Mondays, as in, "Fuck, it's another Monday!" If you want to go for a more positive vibe, we can go with L.G.S.D.W.S.W.T.U.C.A.T.B Saturdays, as in, "Let's get so drunk we sleep with that ugly chick at the bar Saturdays!" But that would just create a sign that was too big.

By the way, T.G.I.F doesn't work for the millions of people (myself included) who have to work on the weekends, mostly to serve the 9 to 5 folks who are lucky enough to have them off.

The New York Times has a televised commercial for their weekend newspaper, which, surprisingly enough, is called The Weekender. The paper actually comes out Friday through Sunday, which I suppose confuses some into believing the weekend is actually a day longer. During said commercial, a young lady pitches the paper by saying, "After all, who doesn't want to start the weekend early?" Again, the millions of people who actually have to work on the weekends. I'm not a violent person, but I really want to punch that lady. Maybe they would write about it in The Weekender.