We members of the class of 1980, being part of the storied and self-absorbed "baby boom" generation, would like to announce that we are now 40. Our 40 is not like your 40, though, the 40 of yore in which fat, balding men began the long, humiliating slide into middle age, incontinence, and imminent death, but a new 40 in which we are youthful and vital and can still get a woodie. We chase 19-year-old girls and stay up all night partying. For us, being 40 is like being 30 used to be. My girlfriend says I am in "denial," but "denial" is in Egypt, and I am up to my tits in da Potomac, where the raw sewage of the once-proud Republic is swirling around my armpits.
I recently joined other Pikes - under 40 ones - at Ed "the Tool" Conti's wedding. Ed was the editor of this rag for a spell, until it was discovered that his "alumni notes" sections were not culled from alumni notes, as he claimed, but from mescaline hallucinations and Penthouse Forum letters. We were tipped off by his note announcing the promotion of Ralph Olivier to the post of Vice-President of the Nudist Planet Gleebon. Anyway, the wedding was an idyllic affair on the shores of stunning Lake Tahoe, on the California side. Some of the low-lifes from the groom's side spent most of the 4-day extravaganza losing their shorts at the craps tables in nearby Reno. Conti's father had to be bailed out of the Reno caboose no less than 3 times. Ed married Stacy Fix, a babe of the type you can only dream about. In a brilliant bit of casting Ed chose the venerable laggard Ed "Chow King" Catto as best man. Chow's wife is babely, as well. Chow commandeered the microphone at the vast outdoor reception and told a raft of monstrous lies about how upstanding Tool was in college, completely forgetting to mention the arrests, drugs, barnyard animals, and painful recriminations. We believe the oversight was a result of either: 1) bribery, or c) alcoholic psychosis. Other Pikes in attendance were John Ramsey, Al Jacobs, Dave Bloom, Barry Lawrence, and Paul Linskey. If I've left anybody out, frankly, I don't care.
Kelley and I moved back into our house in Georgetown. Our tenants' taste in paint and wallpaper can only be described as gothic. I'm not Martha Stewart, but I take my cues from the Queen of Taste, namely my better half, Kelley, and she's still having the fantods. I have to hose her down twice a day. The living room is an indescribable shade of red. Or maybe orange. Don't even ask about the guest bath, a.k.a. "Purgatory."
Steve Amador never paid me the $1000 he owes me for his intemperate Election Night bet of 1984. I would never think of using my position as a columnist for this esteemed publication for personal gain, other than to say that if he doesn't pay me I will lay waste to all he has ever known and held dear. Join me in making his every waking moment a living hell until he ponies up. I'll share. This bold threat is void if Steve is still lifting weights and is the approximate size of an Australian saltwater crocodile, only not as weak and well mannered.
Speaking of elections, I'm writing this the day after the midterm elections. I know most of our readership consists of Clinton-hating Republicans, to whom I would like to address the following words, first spoken by Abraham Lincoln in the Truman Doctrine of 1492: "hahahahahaha".