The new year has dawned, and we baby boomers have officially begun our mission to ruin the nation.
It’s about time. We tried hard to wreck the country back in the ‘60s. But by 1969 there was so much marijuana being smoked and acid being dropped that the plan was lost in a purple haze of confusion.
RADICAL ACTIVIST – “Come together, people. We got to Fight the Power!
HIPPIE FREAK – “Far out, man. Like, whoa, check out the butterflies.”
This time, however, we boomers have a more realistic shot at destroying America. That’s because the first avalanche of my peers turns 62 this year.
Sixty-two is that magic age when a citizen can tell the government to start sending the Social Security checks.
True, you don’t get as much at 62 as you do at age 66. But that’s really a non-issue. See, the problem is that there are so many boomers it’s only a matter of time before Social Security runs out of cash and stops returning phone calls.
Economists call this the law of Supply and Demanding Old Coots.
Most experts believe a collapse of the Social Security system will set off a chain reaction of calamities that could end with Ritzville under 6 feet of water.
Or maybe that’s Al Gore and global warming. But whatever actually happens will be catastrophic or they wouldn’t yak about it so much on talk radio.
Economics can be very complicated. But here’s a simple way to digest this issue.
Think of Social Security as a large yummy Carl’s Jr. milkshake. (Whipped cream optional.)
The milkshake will last a long time if you only sink one straw in it.
But let a bunch of your greedy friends stick their straws into the milkshake and soon you’ll have an empty cup, not to mention a raging case of trench mouth.
Think about that offensive gurgling death rattle the straw makes when you suck it at the bottom of an empty milkshake. That’s exactly what the demise of Social Security will sound like – only a LOT LOUDER.
The analogy also works if you imagine hundreds of jumbo leeches stuck all over a helpless victim.
Eventually the leeches will drain all of the victim’s vital fluids. Even with taxpayer transfusions there’ll be nothing but a dry bloodless husk left for the next generation of parasites who come along.
Heck, I don’t even know if there’ll be any money left when I can apply.
Let’s see. I won’t turn 62 until … Oh, it’s too depressing. I don’t like to think about the aging process.
It seems like it was only yesterday when I was buying a pair of suede Beatle boots at the Two Swabbies store.
Then – wham! – next thing I know some pimply punk behind a glass partition is asking me if I qualify for a senior discount on my movie ticket.
I’ll discount you, you ticket-dispensing twit.
At the risk of sounding like a traitor, there is a way America could halt the boomer threat to Social Security.
All it will take is a class action lawsuit claiming that we baby boomers forfeited our benefits eligibility years ago. The evidence is right there in many of the songs from our long-gone youth.
Take “My Generation,” The Who’s enduring anthem that I heard on public radio Wednesday morning.
“Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin’ ‘bout my generation.)
“I hope I die before I get old (Talkin’ ‘bout my generation.)
Hope I die before I get old?
Some slicky-boy lawyer – John Edwards, say – could argue that this lyric is actually a verbal contract that baby boomers breached by not expiring as young as promised.
He could introduce that line from the Hollies song: “… all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you.”
Yeah, right. All we need is the air that we breathe and an affordable health care plan that covers knee replacement and liposuction.
We weren’t supposed to grow old. We weren’t supposed to need Social Security.
All this talk about aging has made my stomach hurt. I think I’ll stop now and go drop some acid reducer.