39 And Done (Article)
by Mike Siscoe
I just turned 39 and had to realize all of my childhood dreams are now gone. I’m never going to pitch in the World Series. I’m never going to win the Super Bowl. Worst of all, I’m never going to be that international super spy I always wanted to be. Who ever heard of an international super-spy who is lactose intolerant. Seriously, I’ve always wanted to be James Bond. How can I be James Bond if the villains can defeat me with Brie.
I can’t be James Bond anymore. I can’t chase the bad guys down on foot. I get winded getting up from the couch. I can’t get in a fistfight with 30 henchmen, drink a martini, and save the world. I’d never make it pass the fist fight. One punch and I’m in a coma. Seriously, I hit my head once on the kitchen cupboard and had to call in sick.
James Bond is a master gambler, plays cards for thousands of dollars per hand, and wins. I lose 10 bucks on the nickel slots and I get pissed. Seriously, if I ever lost even a hundred bucks at a poker game I’d be furious. “But, James, the getting away with the stolen plans!” “FUCK HIM!!! I JUST LOST A HUNDRED BUCKS!!” I can’t get in a high speed chase, not in a mini-van. There are no machine guns on an Astrostar. What am I going to do, get alongside the bad guys and throw sippy cups at them.
James Bond doesn’t have a facebook page. He’d never play Mafia Wars, but I do. He doesn’t a have two dozen acres of Farmville, but I do. Even if James Bond did have a 10th level Vampire, my 15th level Slayer would kick his ass. Why would I want to regress? Super spies are classy, they drink vodka martinis, shaken not stirred. I buy whatever beer is on sale. It’s quantity not quality. PBR isn’t even sold in Monte Carlo, and I doubt they have 7-11 in Barcelona. Well they might, it’s just called siete-once, and it’s still classier than I am.
Secret agents live a life of luxury, eat the finest foods, drink the best wines. Me, I just want a good cup of coffee and bowel movement. If I can get 15, quite, productive minutes on the can, I’m a happy man. No one orders Metamucil with their fois gras. The closest I ever got to caviar in my life were the salmon eggs on my California Roll. They would have to make high-tech gadgets out of the crap I have in my house.
“It may look like an ordinary Snuggie, but actually it is a Teflon coated fiber capable of stopping a .357 Magnum”
“As you can see Mr. Bond, the Doomsday device can be activated with a simple clap of the hands.”
“It’s so simple 007, a child can do it. Just put the Popiel Nuclear Bomb in the detonator, set it, and forget it. It’s that easy.”
How many double 00 agents see a therapist? I’m going to be disarming a bomb, with just seconds left, and have a panic attack. I may have a license to kill, but it also comes with a permit for guilt. Imagine that, they capture my therapist, torture him, and learn all of Mike Siscoe, international super secret agent’s, childhood fears. Now all the bad guys need to do to capture me is put a sad clown and a dead snake on a pointed stick. One look at that, and I’m in the fetal position.
I think the real reason I could never be a secret agent is the hours. That’s a 24-7 job. I can barely do 45 minutes doing standup. If I got to do an hour, I’m pooped.Forget staying up all night on a stakeout. If I don’t catch the bad guy before 11:30, it’s bedtime. I wish I could be an international super spy, just so long as the espionage and intrigue take place in a one block radius, and I don’t have to get up.
I’m 39 and I’m done.
