The Dead Dads Club

   Many of my friends and I have dead dads. There were so many of us back in Chicago that, as a joke, we started The Dead Dads Club. We’d even sing ala Fred Schnieder from the B52’s, “Everybody will join…The Dead Dads Club!”

On Father’s Day, we made it a tradition to go out and get shit faced. It wasn’t a somber event. It was just a dumb reason for all of us to go out and get loaded.

 One Father’s Day my friend Kevin and I were the last two standing. The bar was closing, and we stepped outside and started saying our goodbyes. Before we parted ways, we threw a few dead dad jokes at one another.

 “Be safe on your way home, Kevin.”

   “Too bad your Dad wasn’t safe with that gun, Dwyer. Maybe he’d still be with us.”

“Hey, Kevin I can always punch you in the face to remind you what it’s like to have your dad around.”

We laughed and then stumbled our separate ways towards home.

At the time I lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago. It isn't the nice white boy neighborhood it is now. Back then it was filled with corner drug dealers, junkies, and bloated, unattractive, drugged-up sex workers and I loved it.


  I cut down a side street towards my apartment and out of a very dark doorway stumbled a streetwalker. She’s whacked out on smack and, in a weak Billie Holiday heroin voice, she said, “Happy Father’s Day.”

I stopped and blurted out, “I don’t have a dad. He’s dead.” To which she responded, “So is mine. Want a blow job?”

  A silence fell between us. Within a second I had a thousand thoughts of how everything in our lives has led us this moment. How if our fathers were alive maybe neither of us would be in this moment. We could have totally different lives. Then my drunken mind thought perhaps I should get this blow job. We are two careening souls wandering the dark side streets of Chicago looking for our fathers. We should bond over the death of our fathers. 

Reality tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me, “Um, does AIDS ring a bell? Herpes or various other STDs? 

I weave back and forth and say, “Maybe next time," and continued on my way. 

Oddly I think of her now and again. I wonder if she ever got off the streets or if she is still out there giving fellatio to strange men. I also wonder what if that line was just a marketing plea and she totally had a father.  Maybe she has a pat line for every holiday. “Happy Fourth of July.” “I don’t celebrate the Fourth. I’m Canadian.” “Me too. Wanna…”

 I guess it doesn’t matter. The strange thing is every Father’s Day I remember her before I remember my dad.

Werewolf Dad

Recently I have been shuffling around the apartment grumbling to myself, “Why is this light on?” “Why is this door open,” and“Why do the neighbors make so much noise?”

I never used to be like this.  I was the one who left the lights on, played music too loudly to notice the neighbors or I was passed out drunk on the bed/chair/couch/floor/front walkway/back walkway to observe my surroundings.

This change in behavior started shortly after my daughter’s birth. At first, I excused it as lack of sleep, but these new personality traits kept visiting. I tried to be aware of it and change my demeanor, but I continued to get annoyed by things like cars driving too quickly the street or a doors slamming.  Then I realized, this is who I am becoming. There is no fighting it. I am a Dad.

I also started to look like a Dad or a junky. They’re not that different, really. Both desperately need baths and sleep while walking around scratching themselves with a deadened look in their eye. The only difference between a parent and a junky is the parent wakes up with a house full of people they know.

In this bumbling state of fatherhood I can barely remember the time when I was cool, or at least had the delusion I was cool. Long gone are the days of vintage shirts and expensive well-fitting jeans cuffed over my three hundred dollar Red Wing boots.  My new uniform consists of running shoes though I do not run, a spit covered hoodie and a pair of filthy sagging jeans with my boxers bunched up over the top. Sure, if I put forth a little effort I could dress a little nicer, but when you’re a parent you are so fatigued you leap at any chance to get a moment to yourself, so why the fuck waste time choosing a good/clean shirt when you can spend the extra minute in the shower or sitting toilet staring at your iPhone.

When my wife was pregnant I swore I wouldn’t turn into the dads I knew. I would stay on top of new music, see the latest movies and hang out with my friends. Oh, how foolish and naïve I was.  The force of being a dad is too powerful. It’s like being bit by a werewolf the metamorphosis is inevitable. You will transform into the creature you fear most.

With my newfound uncoolness, I regressed to the things I once thought made me cool.  I’ve returned to listening to the music of my twenties; Pearl Jam, The Beastie Boys, Nirvana and various Punk bands that most people under forty never heard. This is my subconscious enjoying the time when I was free and didn’t give a fuck about electric bills or receding gums.

There are other dad characteristics that have taken over like a sudden desire to own a grill and my deep love for Costco. Seriously, I mother fucking love Costco.

If two years ago, you told me I would get excited when I entered a big warehouse store I’d have told you someone stole your brain and replaced it with the brain of an idiot. Then, as a preventive measure, I’d have eaten mushrooms so as to have a spiritual journey to keep the concept of consumerism far-far-far away from my psyche.


 I was having a really bad day. I felt lonely, my heart ached. I was having anxiety. Overall, the world seemed to pulsate with the meaninglessness of it all. One could say I was having an existential crisis. Standing mid-hill on a walk home, breathing heavily, I thought, I wish Life could take the form of a man, so one afternoon I could bump into him in a dark empty tavern. He’d be sitting at one end of the bar, toiling through whatever thoughts Life would toil through. I’d give him a nod and say, “Barkeep, send that man a whiskey.” He’d thank me and we’d share some inane conversation about baseball, the weather, and how there is no good TV news anymore. Life would even make the joke about how there are so many Starbucks opening up that a Starbucks opened inside of a Starbucks. Though I wouldn’t find it funny, I’d smile. Then out of nowhere, I’d say, “I know who you are.” Life would play coy, shrug, and try to make it not a big deal. I’d say, “Guess what? I’m going to take you out back and kick your ass.” I’d mean it too. I’d take Life right out back and beat the living shit out of the mother fucker so badly his front teeth would hit the pavement like the sound of dice, and every punch would be delivered with a verbalized reason: “This is for heart break” (Punch).This for that cancer scare you gave me this year” (Punch). “This is for the girl who made 1998 hell” (Punch-punch).

“This is for utility bills. My lack of being able to connect with my family, being born poor, not being able to pay my rent, born-again Christians and the various other assholes who harass me on the corner. This is for the threat of nuclear devastation, starvation, hatred, racism, AIDS, the Chicago Cubs sucking for my entire life, wet shoelaces, the death of John Lennon, my father’s breath, homelessness, the girls who I can’t get to love me and the girls who do love me, fear, high school, my inability to truly understand The Brothers Karamazov, the day I have to hear Woody Allen died, the lack of health care, the depletion of the ozone, the price of gas, my social awkwardness, cars breaking down on the 405, the general overall pain we feel, jobs, Republicans, Joan Rivers, spider bites, bad tacos, my sudden inability to digest cheese, and the goddamn daily struggle of it all!”

Finally, when Life was beat and tired and lying on the pavement, I’d extend my hand and help him up. He’d struggle to get his footing, weave, and then stumble into me so he wouldn’t fall back down to the pavement. I’d grab him and hold him close to me, with my hand cradling the back of his greasy head. I’d whisper to him, “Hey, thanks for Miles Davis, Chicago in November, and that girl who smiled at me in the lobby of that theater. Thanks for The Marx Brothers, Guinness, Jameson, and those flowers I smell when I stumble home drunk. Thanks for girls with dainty tattoos. Thanks for Camus, even though I have never finished one of his books. Thanks for breakfast at outdoor cafes, the city of Dublin, and that guy at the subway stop in New York who plays that old metal bucket with a string and a broomstick attached to it. Thanks for the sound trains make and Cole Porter. Thanks for the paintings of Gris. The words of James Joyce and ee cummings. Thanks for road trips to Portland and Mad Magazine when I was eight. Thanks for the love I do have and my friends, no matter how fucked up they can be. Thanks, you old shit bag, thanks.” Then I’d throw my arm around Life, and we’d shuffle back into the bar where we’d proceed to get drunk and laugh like fools, for that’s what we both are – fools.

Young Me Meets Older me

I have recently been given the honor and strange privilege to spend one hour talking with the human incarnation of myself at the age of eighteen. I know this sounds crazy and hard to believe. I'm sure many of you will think I have lost my mind or I am making this tale up. But I swear to you it is true, and this is how it began.

 One week ago I was in a small empty restaurant in Chinatown. I was on my cell phone loudly complaining to a friend that my birthday was coming up and it was filling me with a great sense of failure because I hadn’t accomplished any of the goals I set for myself when I was eighteen.

 I said to my friend, "God, I was such a fucking dreamer back then. I wish I could sit my eighteen-year-old self down and knock some goddamned sense into his head." With that, a small middle-aged Chinese woman stepped from behind the counter and offered me that chance.

  Due to an agreement I made with that woman, I am not allowed to share with you the methods used to make this all happen. However, I can tell you what transpired between eighteen-year-old me and current me.

 Because eighteen-year-old me lived in Chicago, I decided it best we meet there. Besides he doesn't travel well. He panics a lot during trips, gets lost, and usually makes a grand fool of himself hitting on the woman seated next to him on airplanes.

I sat at a sidewalk café, nervously awaiting his arrival and wondering, “What will I be like? Will I like young me? Will I wish I was still young me, or will I be happy I am me and no longer me?” This train of thought hurt me and made me slightly dizzy.

Young me came strutting down the street, and I must say he looked like a goddamned idiot. There he was wearing a long green trench coat covered in buttons. Most were punk band buttons, but some had political statements written on them like "No Guns for Money-Iran/Contra." I knew at eighteen I had no idea what the fuck that meant. I just was wearing it to seem informed and cool.

I stood up to greet myself, "Hey. Matt. I am Matt." To which young me responded, "You don't look half bad." I was relieved to hear him say that, though I did notice I have put on weight.

 "What are you up to?" I asked. To which young me responded, "You forgot already?"

 We both laughed, and as he sat down I thought to myself, I like this kid. He's okay.

Young me ordered a coffee. I wanted to tell him to get anything on the menu he wanted, but I didn't have the heart to tell him I was broke. In fact, I knew he made more money than I did. To top it off, he had health insurance.    

"You should get your wisdom teeth out," I said. To which he replied, "The dentist says they are coming in straight, and there ain't going to be any problems." 

"Well, it is going to be a problem. In fact, it's going to cause you a great deal of neurosis. In about ten years, anytime you feel anything slightly irritating your gums, you'll wonder if it is the beginning of your teeth falling out. Get the things out while you can afford it."

 Young me sipped his coffee and said, "Money isn't going to be a problem, dude."

I wanted to tell him, yes, it will be. It'll be the fucking bane of your existence. Sure, at times you'll have it, but then blow it all on CDs, booze, and girls. Girls who will never sleep with you, and – if you do sleep with them – it's not because you want sex, but love. And oddly it isn't their love you seek, but the love of your horribly dysfunctional family that you are currently and unknowingly pushing yourself away from.

Then I realized that’s too much to unload on him. Christ, he's still a virgin, and he will be for two more years.

"You know that friend of Aaron's, Kim?" I asked. "She wants to sleep with you."

 Young me got uncomfortable. "No way. She's twenty-seven. Why would she want to have sex with some kid?"

“Because in ten years she'll tell you drunkenly in a bar that she wanted to pop your cherry. All you would have had to do is ask her, and she would have taken you home."

 Young me got flush in the face. I continued, "However if you don't take my advice and, in ten years when you have that moment in the bar, don't go have sex with her."

"Why not?" young me asked.

"Because her boyfriend will stumble across you two in the back of an old Volvo station wagon and beat the hell out of you."

"I'll remember that," young me said.

"Please do," I responded. "It is never fun to explain how you got a black eye, especially when there are two of them accented by a fat lip and stitches."

 I reached over and took a cigarette from young me.    

"I have quit these, but this is a special occasion. So what the hell, right?

Young me reached over the table and lit my cigarette. We had a long look in one another's eyes. I wondered what he was thinking.

  "So kid, what is it you want for yourself in this life?" I knew what the answer to the question was. I just wanted to hear me say it again. I wanted to hear myself be full of hope and optimism again.

"Well," young me said, clearing his throat and suddenly getting uncomfortable.

I interrupted, "Don't worry, Matt, you don't have to fain humility in front of me. In fact, I know the answer to the question. I just want to hear you say it. Tell me as you honestly believe it." 

Young me flicked an ash from his cigarette and nodded, "In a few years I'd like to get hired at Second City as an actor. I am hoping that while I work there, I can meet my soul mate and get married before I am hired by SNL and become the next Bill Murray. I want to meet someone I really love before I get famous because I imagine it is going to be hard to trust people after that point. Then eventually I want to write and direct movies. As I get older, I'd like to work towards being a more serious actor."

I looked at young me and thought, fucking Christ. This could happen for this kid. He believes it and wants it so badly. Why not him? Why shouldn't he have his dreams come true?

Then I realized, it doesn't happen for this kid. As badly as he wants it and as close as he may get to his dreams, there is something in him that keeps him from achieving it. In fact, it takes him almost half his life to overcome his crippling self-doubt.    

I sat there for a moment. I didn't know whether to feel bad for the young kid or for myself. 

"So does it happen?" he asked.

I dropped my cigarette to the pavement and put it out with my shoe. Before I could answer, the waiter approached and asked if we cared for anything else. I ordered the two of us some whiskeys. I figure it couldn't be illegal to order young me a whiskey since technically he doesn't exist, or perhaps in this dimension, it is I who don't exist, and in either case, I won't get arrested for contributing to a minor because one of the two of us doesn't exist.    

I looked up at the kid and saw him sitting on the edge of his chair, wide-eyed and waiting for my answer.   

"Yes, it all happens," I said.    

"Really?" young me asked in disbelief.

I nodded in agreement, "All of it." And with that, the whiskeys arrived  

"I am going to be on Saturday Night Live?" he asked.

"Yes. You are."   

"Holy shit! I can't wait to tell my mom."

"Well, you have to wait six years, and you have some work cut out for you. It doesn't just happen, you know."

"What else am I going to do?" young me asked. "Is there anything that happens that I am going to be surprised by?"

"Hey, kid, if I tell you it won't be a surprise. You want me to ruin your life for you?”

 "Right. Right," young me agreed.

 I lifted up my whiskey and clinked his glass.

 "Here's to it all, Matt." And with that, I threw my glass of whiskey down like it was a glass of water. Young me shivered and choked his glass down.

"So what do you think of me?” I asked young me. He looked me up and down.

 "You seem tired. Tired and sad."

 "Does that cause you concern?" I asked.

"Why should it? You probably have been very busy and over worked."

“Yes. I am busy. Very busy and overworked."

"Well," young me said as he stood up. "I have to be going. I got an improv class tonight."

There is an awkward silence between us. I felt guilty for not telling him the truth, but I also didn't see the point in it. If he knows now, he may just give up and lose all hope, and I don't want that for him.

So I just gave him a hug. I wanted to whisper something in his ear. Something of wisdom that he'd carry around with him and ponder anytime life got too hard or he thinks he can't take it anymore. But then I realized, I have no idea what those words are, so I just said, "I love you, kid. All in all, you'll be all right."

 Young me didn't say anything. He just shrugged his shoulders and gave an awkward wave and then walked off.

I wish I could tell you I had some major revelation from this whole experience. That it profoundly changed the way I view life, but it didn't. 

 As I watched him walk away, all I felt was a tinge of pain in the center of my being, and the only thought I had was, here I am and there is nothing I can do about it. So I better make the best of it, and I will never talk on a cell phone in a Chinatown again.


Matt Dwyer: American

People who know me will say one thing about me, “That Matt Dwyer … he sure is proud to be an American.” To which I reply, “Fucking A. right I am.” I am so proud to be an American that every 4th of July I dig a little hole in the ground and feed it cake because America deserves a tasty treat. I am also known to run all the faucets in my house and laugh at third world countries. I know that some people may find this to be insensitive, but that is what they get for not being in America. I mean come on poor people move to America where we have everything!!!! Actually please don’t. I prefer America to be filled with Americans.

You know what annoys me, Matt Dwyer, American? Americans who complain about America. If you don’t like America, then go move to some place that isn’t America like Guam, France or Ohio. Personally, I don’t mind paying the high gas prices that we have right now. It supports the multi-national corporations that keep this country number one. You know what else we shouldn’t complain about? The Iraq war. Yeah, that’s right. Personally, I believe we should bomb everyone who isn’t American and then make them American even if they are currently living in America. (I have enough faith in our military that they can bomb specific individuals even if they are shopping at a mall and not hurt American civilians.)

The other day I was in a bar and some communist was yammering on about how America has a bloodied past and all one has to do is look to the Trail of Tears to find an example of the atrocities America is capable of committing. To which I replied, “Hey pal, kiss my sweet American taint. It’s not my fault they weren’t born in America.” To which he said, “Actually they were born here.” Then I corrected him and said, “No, we invented America when we brought Plymouth Rock from England. Plus Injuns have the ability to turn into birds and fly away which is just terrifying.” Then he said, “You’re an idiot.” And then I said (with American pride), “If idiot is a synonym for American, then you are right thus making me the winner … or should I say … making AMERICA the winner.

In short people, I am proud to be an American living in America.

If you still have any doubts that America is the best, here is a list of American things America has contributed to the world: Flight, guns, beer, car racing, cars, cookies, reality television, roller coasters, books on tape, boobs, flip books, Flip Wilson, walks on the beach, all-you-can-eat buffets, champagne, Las Vegas, laser light shows, Greece, freedom, 24-hour marts, tumblers filled with corn syrup sweetened drinks, tits, the electric chair, tits, confetti, Liberace, massage parlors, divorce, infidelity, God, America, The Age of Enlightenment, garage sales, hammers, gay bashing, cheek implants, obesity, face punching, gum, guys named Gary with extended bellies and small bathing suits, strip malls, hair, gorillas, Bruce Willis, soup, forced entry, arson, carpet, paint-by-number sets, Norman Rockwell, drum machines, peas, cans, Velcro, the number ten, Wombats, When Harry Met Sally, time machines, lip blisters, hair metal, falsies, moisture, the red stuff in thermometers, British humor, the works of Caravaggio, lesbian three ways, the assembly line, fast food, a rare form of syphilis, Hooked on Phonics, grey hair, tits, old men spitting up, velvet, the book of Deuteronomy, ham, crystal meth, Abercrombie and Fitch, drive bys, assless pants, explosions, boobs, boobies, tits, that feeling you get right when you realize you were lousy in bed, Tupperware, moss, red, bad credit, tits, fist fights, tooth decay, shaved balls, reach-arounds and tits.

A Letter To My Future Child

When I first found out I was going to be a father, my mind raced with so many thoughts and emotions I literally thought my head was going to burst. First were the thoughts of the birth and watching my beautiful son or daughter enter the world. The image of my goo-covered baby exiting the womb and into mommy’s arms filled my eyes with tears. Then came the thoughts of playing catch, the first day of school, prom, college and all the other various life moments we greatly cherish.

I must admit I have led a bit of a wild loner life and the thought of how all this would change not only my life but also me as a man really moved me.  I wanted to capture these thoughts and feelings so someday I could share it with my child.

Below is a letter I wrote to my unborn child sharing what exactly went on with me when I discovered they were coming into my life.  I will mail this letter so they will receive it on their eighteenth birthday.

Dear Son or Daughter,

I am sorry we never met. The second I heard of your mother’s pregnancy I packed my shit and quickly left Chicago. I spent thousands upon thousands of your mother’s dollars on the black market changing my name, social security number, and facial features so you or your mother could never find me.

I know this sounds crazy, but I hope you at least admire the commitment I make to my choices. I know this statement probably raises the question, “Why didn’t you make a commitment to me and my mother?" Well, I never met you and the only thing I liked about your mother was her breasts and that it only took three Bud Lights to get her into bed.

You should know that I met your mother during a brief period in my life when I worked as a stand-up comedian. (I wasn’t very good.) Your mother was a waitress at a low-end club I was working and she was known to sleep with every comic who came through the door.  I hate to think about it, but I am Eskimo buddies with Jay Mohr, Richard Jenni, and a long line of other hack blow-job comics. God only knows how many diseases may swim about my balls.


I guess I should ask the obligatory questions: “How’s school," “Are you going to the dance,” Playing any sports?" However, I don’t see the point since this is being sent with a fake return address, and I will never receive your responses.

I do hope you are well…sort of…I mean for all I know you turned out to be some frat boy jarhead or some uppity Republican girl who doesn’t screw and protests abortion. If this is the case, I blame myself because I wasn’t there to properly guide you through the difficult choices of life. I don’t really mean that. I just thought I’d sound good at the end of a letter.

I hope you enjoyed this letter. I hope it doesn’t hurt that this is a form letter and is being sent out to 25 children throughout the country. Life is hard, kid. Get used to it.

Love, (As if I know how to give that.)

Your father (sort of)

Marcus Willoughby (fake name)


My New Job


 I got a new, really great job. I am working for a doctor. It pays insanely well, I meet interesting people, and I get to travel all over the world.  Like next week, I am going to Venice. No, not Venice, California. Venice, Venice. You know, the place with the guys with the striped shirts pushing boats around with a stick.

 This is what my job description is while in Venice: Sunbathing in a small tight bathing suit, looking handsome while standing next to a doctor, and laughing at his jokes. That pretty much is it!

You might be asking, what kind of job is this? Due to some legal issues, I am called his "assistant" or "boyfriend". I know you are saying, "Boyfriend, Dwyer? That sounds like homosexuality. You’re not gay." Yes, it is homosexuality, and, you are right, I am not gay.

When I am not working I can sleep with as many women as I want. Surprisingly, now that I am "gay" forty plus hours a week, I meet a lot more woman. I can't tell you how many women want to "turn me around". I totally play it up, too. I fumble around their breasts like a caveman looking at a TV.  After I have sex with these women, I thank them for "showing me the light" and then I beg them to please have sex with me, again. It takes everything I have to not crack up laughing.

I know you are wondering a few things: One, how do I justify doing this for a living? A job is a job, man. I provide a valuable service to Dr. Jim, or as I call him, Baby Daddy. For starters, before he hired me he was a very lonely man. Once you see him you'll understand. He's pretty ugly and hairy, like Gorilla hairy. I am constantly plucking hairs from my mouth. So, daily I make this man smile and feel loved. Everybody in this world deserves to feel love, right?

I'm sure the other thing you are wondering is, do I have sex with him? Yes, I do, and a lot, but every job has its downside. I think of it like taking out the garbage. You hate to do it, but you have to.

I know a lot of straight men wouldn't be able to handle this sort of job, but I think it is a matter of perspective. I don't think of it as sex. I think of it like this:  a few times a week for ten to fifteen minutes I have to have something placed up my butt.  I mean, when I get an exam from a doctor he puts things up my butt. Baby Daddy happens to be a doctor. He is putting something in my butt. So I have something up my butt? Big deal. I am not thinking, “Wow, I sure like this gay sex.” I am thinking, “I can't wait to buy that new laptop with my next big fat paycheck.”

 What is worse, me making some fat, ugly, lonely, hairy doctor happy or some corporate shill stealing old peoples’ retirement funds? I am a human being providing another human being with warmth, love, and affection.  So what if it is empty on my part? He doesn't know.

 The great thing is, I think I am getting a promotion. Last week he started discussing the possibility of us becoming life partners.  You know what, if it pays well enough, I will do it.


You Me & Social Security

I recently received my social security statement in the mail. For those of you who have never received this statement and don’t know what it entails, let me inform you. It is a four-page pamphlet that tells you how much you have paid into social security and how much you will be receiving monthly when you retire.

The amount you can receive increases if you wait longer to retire.  The earliest you can begin getting payments is at sixty-two. If you want to hold out for the big bucks you can wait until you are seventy. Wow! Thanks, U.S. government. You mean I can work through that crippling hip pain for an extra eight years as my weakening bladder drips urine down my leg while kids forty years my junior work circles around me? Hot damn!

Let us not forget how much American companies love to keep the old guy around. You know, for his boundless strength and energy, his sage advice on marketing to teens, and his desire to bring back the crank on automobiles.

So let’s presume I don’t get fired from my job or die of a stroke while over exerting myself and I make it to seventy. What will my retirement have in store for me? Maybe a good six to eight months with my Alzheimery yammering wife before she passes away and I spend my last few years staring at a cockroach crawl up the wall of my transient hotel as I listen to the sounds of my crack addict neighbor have sex for drugs.

Now I know you may be saying to yourself, “Gees, Dwyer. Do you always have to paint such a bleak picture? Can’t you spend your last years fishing in Northern Cali?”

Ah, no.

“But don’t you have savings or a retirement fund?”

Ah, no!

I don’t know about you readers but I have spent my life chasing a dream. You know, actor/writer/comic/drinker. Though I love this life, it doesn’t often go hand-in-hand with financial security. Also, we creative types often have an impulse to live in the now. Unfortunately, when the next “now” comes, you’re eating tuna and straining sterno through a sock so you can drink the alcohol.

To give you a better perspective of how I may potentially be very fucked in the future (and you too), I will show you how much I will be getting at my various social security ages.

Retire at age 62: $492 a month

Retire at age 67: $699 a month

Retire at age 70: $948 a month

 Expire trying to reach 70: $0

If I made $492 dollars a month in 2006, I’d be pretty fucking pissed off, but guess how much that’ll be in the economy twenty-five years from now? You guessed it!! NOTHING!!!!


 So with all this in mind I can only foresee my elder years in one of three ways: 1) Living in that transient hotel eating canned cat food. 2) Bagging groceries and getting fired because I told you to fuck off when you said, “You’re gonna break the eggs.” 3) Being the oldest man in America arrested for armed robbery.

I think three is the most likely because I am not bagging your groceries and I sure as hell ain’t eating cat food.

I know I painted a dark image about our futures, but there is something that appears at the bottom of the statement that I’m sure will bring you joy and comfort. It reads: Your estimated benefits are based on current law. Congress has made changes to the law in the past and can do so at any time. The law governing benefit amounts may change because, by 2040, the payroll taxes collected will be enough to pay only about 74 percent of the scheduled benefits.

Great, so I will have to eat dry cat food. Oh, and you don’t even have to pay attention to the news to know that by the time we reach sixty-two there won’t be any social security. However, as I sit there starving, I’ll take pride in knowing that social security money was well spent bringing democracy to Iraq.

My prediction: Twenty-five years from now, there will be an increase in gun and ski mask sales. Watch out mother fuckers, oldie is getting his due.

There is one more statement on my pamphlet that I like. It reads: Did you know…Social Security is more than just a retirement program? It’s here to help you when you need it most?

We’ll see about that.