Laughing Matters: The Fire Sale Episode

by Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

For the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking of doing a Reese’s peanut butter cup 1-2 combo with two other things that I dearly love and think belong together.

Bubble wrap. Blanket forts.

My wife learned of this scrumptious Master Plan when she stumbled upon the blueprints taped all over the bathroom walls, and she quickly assured me that . . .

*ALERT * ALERT * ALERT*

I have to interrupt this month’s regularly-scheduled humor column for a Special Bulletin.

My friend—whose name I will not mention, though it rhymes with Shmahbert—has gotten old. I mean make-it-through-an-entire-day-without-taking-slipper-socks-off old. Like when-you-have-a-flat-tire-people-aren’t-afraid-to-stop-and-help-you old. Like no-one-has-to-explain-to-you-why-Sean-Connery’s-a-celebrity old.

How do I know that my pal is closer to ancient than not? Three days ago, he sneezed . . . and blew out his back. I mean down-for-the-count stuff, with pills and braces and heating pads and unguents that stink of eucalyptus. Plus the moaning. Egads, the crabbing. Good lord—the whining!

Here’s why we’re having a Public Service Announcement/Special Bulletin regarding this. I am exactly one year OLDER than him. And after putting all that high-powered high school math to spectacularly good use for the first time in, oh, maybe 25 years, I’ve determined the following three things.

I’m saving a ton on entrance fees for marathons these days.

Getting shingles on my house with a 30-year guarantee no longer holds the same appeal.

I might just be old, too.

This is rather upsetting. John Mellencamp wisely warned me about this in his song “Jack and Diane” when he intoned: “Hold on to 16 as long as you can.” I didn’t listen because I was too confused whether he was John Cougar Mellencamp, John Mellencamp, Mellencamp, John Cougar, or Lord knows what variation he had that month.

Still, in my mind, I’m 16 and have been for some time now. Perhaps I’m a slightly more robustly . . . ahem . . . mature 16, but it’s 16 nonetheless! Until my younger-than-me buddy goes and starts falling apart in obvious, hard-to-ignore ways, which makes me re-examine things a bit closer to home and admit I might not be 16 any longer.

Some of those closer-to-home concerns?

Like how I wanted freckles as a kid. And now I have them. And they are HUGE!

Like how standing in the shallow end of the pool counts as swimming.

Like how my joints are far more accurate than the Weather channel.

Okay, okay. I’m getting older. Not old. But older. I can accept that—kind of. And I find solace in the idea that if John Travolta can make a comeback, so can I, right? He’s like waaaaay older than me. Plus one.

In pursuit of my own Travolta-like rejuvenation, I’ve been eager to find ways to combat the possibility that I—like my broken-down, younger-than-me pal who is popping Doan’s back pills like Pez candy—might one day soon experience age-related issues. Here are three of my latest efforts.

1. Mark Twain once said: “Whatever a man’s age, he can reduce it by several years by putting a bright-colored flower in his buttonhole.” Well, I don’t have any flowers handy, so I went with strawberry Twizzlers. And I mostly just have t-shirts—no buttonholes but a few do have pockets! So I stuck a couple of Twizzler ropes right in there like a candy bouquet before heading out for some shopping. I’ve got to say, Mr. Mark Twain—your advice blows. But the Twizzlers were tasty!
2. Bird poop. A little Google sleuthing proved that Victoria Beckham uses cream made from nightingale crapola to keep her skin soft and succulent. “Eww!” you might be saying about rubbing that stuff into your pores. I agree. Just remember—I didn’t say that I USED it, but that I’ve considered it. And rejected it. For now.
3. I replaced all my underwear. I have no idea how this is supposed to be a help, but a 96-year-old young-at-heart lady I know swore by this tactic. (She also said the Queen of England occasionally stopped by for smoothies, so her advice could be a bit suspect. But a fresh drawer of underwear is certainly a plus regardless for nearly any situation!)

For now, though, I remain relatively intact in terms of age-related aches and pains. And my mind is still as sharp as a butter knife. I also take comfort in how most of life’s major disappointments are now behind me. I’ll also never have to assemble another bike on Christmas Eve. And by the day, I’m less and less likely to be subjected to a strip search.

Good things, no?

And don’t worry about my pal. I sent him some cans of Campbell’s chicken soup, a basket of bran muffins, and a Sam’s-Club-sized vat of Icy Hot. He’ll surely be thanking me for the yummy treats later.

*ALERT * ALERT * ALERT*

Now back to our regularly-scheduled humor column!

. . . and then the men in hazmat suits came and took away all the goats! Seriously—what can you expect for a buck fifty, right?

So if you know anyone who wants to buy 200 sheets of slightly-used bubble wrap on the cheap, let me know. I’ve got to move this stuff. Fast!

So, fellow oldsters—want to tell Ryan how a pint of ice cream lasts all month in your fridge? Or how Preparation-H is now a multi-use product? Or how cottage cheese and dry toast make a fine meal? Or how after all those years of telling the kids to turn the TV down, you’re now asking them to crank it up? Send those gems to ryan@scenesarasota.com today!

Want more laughs? Ryan does this every month – check out his other episodes here!