A Pirate Looks At 30.

At 1:19 pm today, my body will turn 30 years old. That’s 210 in dog years. This is an unbelieveable occurance to me. Who let this happen? Who is responsible for this? I want answers!
It really started this imposing feeling on me. Brett Farve just retired. An old, graying man, hobbled by injuries... at 38. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven at 33. Kurt Cobain blew his brains out at 27. But 30? What so great happens at 30? The other day, Adam said to me "Wow, 30. You know what that means? You can’t ever trust a fart again." So there it is. There’s the meaning of 30.
One night when I was 10 years old, I burst into tears and ran into the den from my bedroom into my mother’s arms. I’d made a realization. My great grandmother had passed away recently at 82 years old. For some strange reason, I’d equated years into decades, making Mawmaw Neal 8.2 years old, but luckily I was only 1.0. I asked my mom "Will I die?" and she said "Well, someday, we all die. But there’s a long time between now and then." That was in 1988, and the time between "now and then" gets shorter all the time. But as I walked back to my bedroom, I held my head high and I said "I’m never going to die." Do I have the same resolve at 30? I guess one can only hope so.

Is it time to wear more sweaters?
Is it time to buy a watch?
Is it time to get a cocker spaniel, and wear knee-high black socks?
Is it time to buy a feathered wig, and wear it on my head?
Is it time for my daily spongebath, is it time to be spoon-fed?
There it is. My 30-poem. I don’t understand what the feathered wig had to do with anything, but who knows? But you know what: I’ll close with this. I am truly blessed to have such a great girlfriend (sorry Aimee, but ’wife’ sounds too grown up today), such great friends, to have such wonderful family, to have such terrific people that surround me in this life. I love all of you dearly, and you make turning 30 a little easier.

Now if you’ll excuse me, where’s the alcohol? I still have a few hours left before 1:19.