"Age is a state of mind? That's what you told me when I was your student."
17 comments:
KitKat
said...
Look at it this way, Toby: If you didn’t have birthdays, you’d be dead.
I’m cautiously optimistic that I may have been wrong when I figured the Camerons were just making a transitional cameo this week and would soon be put back on KM’s dusty shelf. A break from Wilbur and Estelle? Not a return to “Dogs are good!”? Yay.
Why Toby, you're looking positively Stepfordesque! Some say it's a miracle you're still fit as a fiddle. (A secondhand double bass, anyway).
Meanwhile Ian (ahem, I mean me) is looking more interested in the Scottish Babes Quarterly centerfold tucked in to his Nabokov reader than he is in Toby's witty repartee.
So Toby decides to get plastic surgery in Mexico since it's cheaper and close. She takes a cruise ship to Mexico and is looking at the ocean but since the anesthesia has not completely worn off she falls overboard and ends up on an island resort. No? Too soon?
Wilbur Weston- My ‘Time Away’ and How I Saved My Own Life
Part 2…
Some time later- I know not how long, for the force of the fall broke my Patek Philippe Aquanaut watch with the allegedly water-resistant case- I groggily awoke on a tropic shore, not unlike that of the Del Coronado Hotel, though without the hordes of tourists toting Nordstrom tote bags. To my shock, the trousers of my Brioni Vanquish tan silk poplin suit ended in ragged ankles, the jacket must have been in Davy Jones’ locker, and my Savile Row bespoke shirt was shredded. I was surprised to see that I was wearing a single Dolce and Gabbana calfskin loafer. Apparently I had not changed into my lug soled Prada boots before I strolled the decks. No doubt that is why I fell overboard.
But I digress. Where was I and what was I to eat? It might be years before Paper’s crack rescue team was able to locate me. What I wouldn’t give for a smoked salmon pizza delivered by Wolfgang Puck, and a bottle of Irn Bru! ‘Man up, Weston!’ I told myself. You’ve lived by your brawn and wits all your life, and by your Planet Fitness brawn and your Trump University-honed intellect you shall survive this ordeal. Are those coconuts I spy at the top of that 200 foot palm tree? Yes! And just like that I shimmied to the top of the tree and liberated enough coconuts to keep me going for weeks.
Ahoy, is that a bar I see on the other side of this island with Martini and Rossi striped patio umbrellas? And are those Coppertone lotion-slathered tourists drinking Dole pineapple juice and gin? ‘Hallelujah!’ I shouted, ‘I’m saved!’
I made my way across the island, approached the bartender, asked him for a Pina Colada and a ham sandwich, and explained my plight. Unfortunately, he spoke no English, and he answered me in a harsh tone which I later learned meant, ‘ We don’t serve your kind in here, now go away, tramp!’ I hid in the bushes for a while and watched as a tender ferried the very tall, very wide tourists back to their ship. I later learned that they were the Nike all-Tonga rugby team on tour. But at least I had the bar snacks and beverages to sustain me while I awaited rescue. I ate some of the taro leaves with tapioca and some of the raw fish and some of the corned beef-stuffed banana leaves. NOT. MY. FAVORITE. I rationed myself with the liquor, and when that was gone, I made a batch of Pruno with Luxardo maraschino cherries, Mazzetta cocktail onions, Goya coconut milk, olives, and club soda. The first glass was not too tasty, but it got better as the days wore on.
On the fifth day, I flagged a fishing boat down, and he took me to the other side of the island to a town called Avalon. The charity shelter there let me take a shower and gave me some fresh clothes. The Santa Catalina police gave me a one-way ferry ticket to Santa Royale, because he didn’t want me to become a ‘burden on the city’. As if!
When I got to the Santa Royale docks, I flagged down an Ultra Royale Taxi, and to my surprise, it was being driven by….
At least we're finding out what Wilbur did that week. Moy is never gonna tell us. Thank you for that. Somebody has to step up to the plate and I'm sure your Version is better than anything than Moy could have come up with.but we'll never know for sure.
Actually, Toby is looking a little haggard in Panel 2.
Anyway, I sincerely hope you're right, Downpuppy, and that this will turn out to be Toby trying to convince Ian (who hates children) that it's time to start a family.
But because that would be sort of fun and interesting, it's more likely that this will turn out to be Toby asking Ian why he has swapped his white undershirts for magenta.
The advice no one has given Toby is to forget about the whole "cult of youth" thing. Being young is good. Being middle-aged is good. Being old is good. All those conditions mean you're not dead, which is good. Adopting that attitude also means that asking a person's age is not rude. All ages are good because it means you're not dead! Meddling advice from a non-dead 68-year-old (as of six days ago).
Happy belated birthday, Jana C.H. ! Your comments remind me of my mother who would still refer to herself as “middle aged” well into her sixties. Turned out she wasn’t all that far off. She lived to be 105!
We were at a Chris Isaak concert a few years ago and he said "I'm in my extremely late 40s" which I think describes my situation perfectly. Glad to be here, too.
hmmm: I remember I used occasionally to refer to myself cheerfully as middle-aged when I was thirty-five, on the grounds that the Bible (I was a Neo-pagan at the time) gave human life-span as "three-score and ten," and thirty-five is right in the middle. Subverting the paradigm for decades!
17 comments:
Look at it this way, Toby: If you didn’t have birthdays, you’d be dead.
I’m cautiously optimistic that I may have been wrong when I figured the Camerons were just making a transitional cameo this week and would soon be put back on KM’s dusty shelf. A break from Wilbur and Estelle? Not a return to “Dogs are good!”? Yay.
Why Toby, you're looking positively Stepfordesque! Some say it's a miracle you're still fit as a fiddle. (A secondhand double bass, anyway).
Meanwhile Ian (ahem, I mean me) is looking more interested in the Scottish Babes Quarterly centerfold tucked in to his Nabokov reader than he is in Toby's witty repartee.
So Toby decides to get plastic surgery in Mexico since it's cheaper and close. She takes a cruise ship to Mexico and is looking at the ocean but since the anesthesia has not completely worn off she falls overboard and ends up on an island resort. No? Too soon?
Wilbur Weston- My ‘Time Away’ and How I Saved My Own Life
Part 2…
Some time later- I know not how long, for the force of the fall broke my Patek Philippe Aquanaut watch with the allegedly water-resistant case- I groggily awoke on a tropic shore, not unlike that of the Del Coronado Hotel, though without the hordes of tourists toting Nordstrom tote bags. To my shock, the trousers of my Brioni Vanquish tan silk poplin suit ended in ragged ankles, the jacket must have been in Davy Jones’ locker, and my Savile Row bespoke shirt was shredded. I was surprised to see that I was wearing a single Dolce and Gabbana calfskin loafer. Apparently I had not changed into my lug soled Prada boots before I strolled the decks. No doubt that is why I fell overboard.
But I digress. Where was I and what was I to eat? It might be years before Paper’s crack rescue team was able to locate me. What I wouldn’t give for a smoked salmon pizza delivered by Wolfgang Puck, and a bottle of Irn Bru! ‘Man up, Weston!’ I told myself. You’ve lived by your brawn and wits all your life, and by your Planet Fitness brawn and your Trump University-honed intellect you shall survive this ordeal. Are those coconuts I spy at the top of that 200 foot palm tree? Yes! And just like that I shimmied to the top of the tree and liberated enough coconuts to keep me going for weeks.
Ahoy, is that a bar I see on the other side of this island with Martini and Rossi striped patio umbrellas? And are those Coppertone lotion-slathered tourists drinking Dole pineapple juice and gin? ‘Hallelujah!’ I shouted, ‘I’m saved!’
I made my way across the island, approached the bartender, asked him for a Pina Colada and a ham sandwich, and explained my plight. Unfortunately, he spoke no English, and he answered me in a harsh tone which I later learned meant, ‘ We don’t serve your kind in here, now go away, tramp!’ I hid in the bushes for a while and watched as a tender ferried the very tall, very wide tourists back to their ship. I later learned that they were the Nike all-Tonga rugby team on tour. But at least I had the bar snacks and beverages to sustain me while I awaited rescue. I ate some of the taro leaves with tapioca and some of the raw fish and some of the corned beef-stuffed banana leaves. NOT. MY. FAVORITE. I rationed myself with the liquor, and when that was gone, I made a batch of Pruno with Luxardo maraschino cherries, Mazzetta cocktail onions, Goya coconut milk, olives, and club soda. The first glass was not too tasty, but it got better as the days wore on.
On the fifth day, I flagged a fishing boat down, and he took me to the other side of the island to a town called Avalon. The charity shelter there let me take a shower and gave me some fresh clothes. The Santa Catalina police gave me a one-way ferry ticket to Santa Royale, because he didn’t want me to become a ‘burden on the city’. As if!
When I got to the Santa Royale docks, I flagged down an Ultra Royale Taxi, and to my surprise, it was being driven by….
To be continued…
This strip has been veering dangerously close to PG-13 territory the last couple of days.
Toby's biological clock is ticking.
We're in for 3 months of talking & 3 years of gestation.
At least we're finding out what Wilbur did that week. Moy is never gonna tell us. Thank you for that. Somebody has to step up to the plate and I'm sure your Version is better than anything than Moy could have come up with.but we'll never know for sure.
Sounds like Toby may have a thyroid problem. Paging Dr. Zak…
KitKat said...
Look at it this way, Toby: If you didn’t have birthdays, you’d be dead.
Optimist!
Actually, Toby is looking a little haggard in Panel 2.
Anyway, I sincerely hope you're right, Downpuppy, and that this will turn out to be Toby trying to convince Ian (who hates children) that it's time to start a family.
But because that would be sort of fun and interesting, it's more likely that this will turn out to be Toby asking Ian why he has swapped his white undershirts for magenta.
HelenClark
The advice no one has given Toby is to forget about the whole "cult of youth" thing. Being young is good. Being middle-aged is good. Being old is good. All those conditions mean you're not dead, which is good. Adopting that attitude also means that asking a person's age is not rude. All ages are good because it means you're not dead!
Meddling advice from a non-dead 68-year-old (as of six days ago).
Happy belated birthday, Jana C.H. !
Your comments remind me of my mother who would still refer to herself as “middle aged” well into her sixties. Turned out she wasn’t all that far off. She lived to be 105!
We were at a Chris Isaak concert a few years ago and he said "I'm in my extremely late 40s" which I think describes my situation perfectly. Glad to be here, too.
Mother Nature? Does she mean that gloppy pink thing on the top of John Dill’s prize-winning cake?
hmmm: I remember I used occasionally to refer to myself cheerfully as middle-aged when I was thirty-five, on the grounds that the Bible (I was a Neo-pagan at the time) gave human life-span as "three-score and ten," and thirty-five is right in the middle. Subverting the paradigm for decades!
SATURDAY
You’re correct, Toby - men really can get away with a lot more. Wilbur Weston gets away with everything.
I am a 62 year old guy and I don't recall my midlife crisis or male menopause. If it happened I must have been asleep.
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