Hey, don't tell anyone.

Ten thousand years ago, a superhuman race of highly intelligent female warriors, living in harmony on the planet Target-Kohls, decided males somewhere deserve punishment. Being superhuman, intelligent, and most importantly, female, they got their way.

"We must punish these males," they said, "because . . . well . . . because it's so much fun."

They searched the universe, and being superhuman, they could search the future, too. From their post high atop Mt. Ungratefulkids, they chanced upon the earth, and after seeing Mickey Rourke, decided earth males must suffer.

"What should we torment them with?" one of the warriors wondered.

"Well, let's not make it too flashy," another replied.

After a short discussion they decided on four diseases: Forgetfulmania, Can't Finditis, Perpetual Juvinoma, and Pack Ratphobia. I know all the details because, well, I forgot why, but trust me; it's the truth. I wrote it down and it's somewhere on this desk, but . . . ah . . . anyway.

The warriors clapped with glee, and beamed the viruses across time and space to our fair planet. The results were instantaneous.

Forgetfulmania and Can't Finditis are obvious in their symptoms, if you think about it. I'm sure you see fellows that couldn't find their behind with both hands and a mirror, and if they could, they'd forget why they were looking. Poor guys.

The other afflictions, like Perpetual Juvinoma? Give a woman a fizzy bottle of soda; she'll drink it, and nary a sound will she make. Give a guy three sips of that same bottle, and see if he can't burp the Declaration of Independence. Twice. Boys will be boys. Always, with a disease like this.

Finally, Pack Ratphobia. This is a distress based on events of thirty to forty years ago. The warriors, through their sister drones here on earth, subconsciously instructed most boys to throw away their baseball cards as the boys grew. Some resisted, but quickly succumbed. The warriors then dug them up out of the landfills, and now slowly release them into circulation, shooting the price sky high. Over the years, it’s robbed those who pitched their cards of the ability to throw away anything, anywhere, anytime.

As the viruses replicated, the sisters realized there were management issues.

"This is a lot of virus to keep track of," one warrior said as they checked back on earth in the 1940's.

"Yes, we'll need a way to keep feeding them each of the strains," said another.

They thought for a moment, and suddenly one of the warriors had an idea.

"Let's invent television, give them about three generations to get hooked, and then let's invent the remote control."

The other warriors thought that was a great idea, and so it came to be. Whenever a man uses the remote control, these aliens are able to funnel more of the viruses into his body. So, if a fella uses it once in awhile, no biggie. If he discovers free weekends on Showtime and Silicone . . . I mean Cinemax . . . and he works that button until the rooster crows, he'll remain weak and fragile.

I don’t know what the future holds. I'm just grateful for the knowledge, so that I can remain ever vigilant. I'm sure the Target-Kohlites have something up their sleeves. Anyway, if anyone asks, we never met. I simply can't take the chance on being discovered; then they’ll know I’ve found the antidote to all of this.

A continual dose of vitamin B Sure To Say Yes, Honey.

You know who else was born in 1958 besides me?  If you don’t count Oprah (who is starting a new religion based on her distaste for how this one preacher said, “fifty” many years ago while she was in church)  Nearly everyone!  Must have been some frisky parents around in 57 and into 58.

The Smurfs and Madonna (equally talented), among many more, either have done or will do the half a hundred dance this year.  Lobbyist Jack Abramoff- currently in the big house – celebrated in February.  Reckon he’s doing some big time lobbying there?  Kevin Bacon, director Tim Burton, Drew Carey, and Belinda Carlisle, vocals for the Go-Go’s. And for the record, in my smokin’ hot chick draft, Belinda is my number one choice over all the rest mentioned hereafter.

Under the banner of That Can’t be, we have Shaun Cassidy, Andrew Dice Clay (never thought he’d make it alive), our own Mark Cuban, Thomas Dolby (She Blinded Me with Science…anyone?), and those two good ole’ brothers; Alan and Michael Jackson.  Wee-hee!

Some of these folks have written about the deed, and to a man/woman, they write of it in trumpet bleating terms.  At fifty, according mostly all, it’s either, “You have to DO something, BE something, or MAKE something.”  As if they’ve wasted the first fifty years on nothing.  I understand ticking clocks and all, but as much abuse as I’ve heaped on this bag of bones this first five decades?  I’m going to enjoy the rest of today, thank you.  Just enjoy it.

And what if you already have DONE something, like these other 1958ers?  Lisa Loring has.  She was Wednesday on the TV’s Addams family.  Viggo has; he was Aragorn in Lord of the Rings.  What else might a man need on his resume once he’s done that? 

Caroline Kennedy…let’s pause for a moment there.  She was our age on that day?  That day we were much too young to remember but somehow do?

More on the music scene… we have Tanya Tucker, Grandmaster Flash for all us old-school funk fans, Vinny Appice, drummer for Dio and Black Sabbath and younger brother of Carmine…I bet NO ONE can guess who he drummed for…and finally, Prince turns fifty.  The Purple One is FIFTY!! 

That guy who lives in can…Prince Albert…turned fifty, as does/did Andie McDowell (Groundhog Day), Alex Baldwin, Tim Robbins, Jeff Foxworthy, Sharon Stone and Michelle Pfeiffer.  Some did it more gracefully than others, but what does that mean, really? 

Point is, middle-aged people, it’s fifty, not two hundred and fifty.  Milestone?  I suppose, and I’m certainly a guy out here talkin’ it up, but I did it for thirty and forty. It’s just fun, is all.  I’ll do it for sixty too…as long as Oprah doesn’t go out, buy and trademark the numbers 6 and 0 and start a new religion first.