After I turn 30 on Friday, I’m switching sides.
No, I’ve never been a switch-hitter. I swing strictly from the left side, and my feet are just an indicator of my speed in stretching Texas-Leaguers into second-base.
But I am switching sides in the “Under-30 — Over-30 Wars.” In five days I will no longer trust anyone under 30.
(Those who think they’ve known me almost 29 years just in Portales should remember that — though I haven’t discovered time travel — I have invented time-warping. For only $19.95 these secrets can be yours, along with a six-pack of Shaefer anointed by my cousin — Bootlegger Sloan.)
These under-30s really chafe my past as they text, tweet, YouTube, Facebook and blow smoke about each other’s assets as they plan their next flash-mob, community-service event.
Sure, we didn’t have their communication tools, but we did gather on the square to recycle Styrofoam.
I don’t begrudge the youngsters their modern smoke signals, but I do wish they would answer the phone, or at least listen to voice mails before texting back to see what we wanted.
It also wouldn’t hurt if they learned that a correctly spelled message is way cooler than the way it is sent.
Still, though I soon will no longer trust them, i ges th kds r knda kul.