Shotgun Reviews

I’ll celebrate my 50th birthday in style, as told by…

Devon Simpson, Contributor

Honestly, I’m just getting over my quarter life crisis, so I don’t even want to think about the anxiety that’ll come with hitting the half-century milestone right now. I just hope I’m not boring by middle age. I mean the day I don’t laugh at a fart is the day I want to die. I envision it already: for my 50th birthday I’m going to work my way through all of my favourite wines and share it with the same friends that I have today. I can say that I am excited for the wisdom I will be able to share by the time I am 50. Wisdom such as: that the perfect bra is a sweatshirt. Oh, and let’s not forget the joys of menopause. Mind you, my hot flashes will probably set off the smoke alarm and sprinkler system by then, as my mother tells me now and I’ll probably share then. But hopefully on my birthday I will be somewhere I want to be, with a couple of people I want to be with. And just between you and me, I already think a sweatshirt is the best bra.

 

Megan Orr, Opinions Editor

As a single mother of four going through divorce number two, mama needs a getaway for her 50th. Although I’ve been sober for some years now, what my kids don’t know can’t hurt them. On my flight to Vegas I order three double rye and cokes, fall asleep and arrive at my destination loudly chanting “VIVA LAS VEGAS!” as the plane bounces on the tarmac. It’s just three of my best girlfriends and me, and we are ready to tear Vegas a new one. Almost immediately, we get separated and the trip turns into a Hangover-like drunken nightmare. It’s fine though, I can make new friends. The bartender cuts me off after my fifth cosmopolitan. Blacked out and alone, I lose $600 to a Sex and the City themed slot machine and celebrate my 50th birthday at the stroke of midnight. I am sitting on the floor in the hallway of my hotel, eating leftovers I found outside someone else’s door. 

Sorry, what? I mean… I spend my 50th birthday surrounded by my lovely children and adoring husband. It’s a quiet evening. We order in from my favourite Italian restaurant and my darling husband and I split a nice bottle of chardonnay. The kids clean up after dinner and then go to their rooms to study. My husband and I go to bed at 10 pm, where we make love for exactly six minutes and promptly fall asleep.  

I don’t know which one sounds more believable, but 10 out of 10 either way.

 

Alexander Derbas, Contributor

The year is 2049, I’m 50 years old, and the fun is just about to start. I figure I might as well implant the metal knees and bionic laser vision I’ve always dreamed of having. I have a new rapper name: Big Bion’ – featuring tracks such as “One Million Lasers” and “Friggin’ Laser Beams.” The big day starts off quintessentially ordinary. I finish plunging toilets and hang out with my bros to watch the famous exotic dancer, Chelsea Charms, perform a once-in-a-lifetime show at the local strip bar in New West, and end my day binge-watching Adam Sandler movies. Waking up to “Man’s Not Hot,” I speed right out of my single bedroom apartment after a breakfast of Kool-Aid and Kraft Dinner. Feeling rejuvenated, I link up with the bros, Tony, Stromboli and Pepperoni. Our destination? A Bel Air mansion booked for the occasion, where we meet a surprising guest, none other than the current commander-in-chief himself, Donald J. Duck. My heart is pounding, my friends arranged a mansion gathering with all of these classics! I spent the day golfing, creating a pointless reality TV show, using the Force and singing Pitch Perfect tracks. Everything seemed so perfect, and it really was, except for one thing: in a broadcast to the planet and its galactic confederacies, I proclaimed, “How the hell did I end up as the Blade Plumber of 2049!?” 

 

Benjamin Jacobs, Contributor

Being 50 years old is a pretty big deal, I mean, congratulations to me. I’m half a century old. So it’s totally natural I’d do something crazy because I’m that old. Now how would I celebrate 50 years and another year closer to me inevitably biting the dust? The answer is quite simple: Vegas, baby! I mean, I could wrestle a bear naked or go scuba diving with sharks while wearing a sushi necklace, but my frail old bones are aching for a different kind of adventure reminiscent of my twenties. So why not shower myself with money and lap dances before Death comes for me? First, I’d need to rent a big red sports car, because I want to go there in style, and what better way to enter Sin City than with a sleek, classy and expensive vehicle that looks like it was made in the greaser era. Once I get there, I’ll make sure to hit as many casinos as I can until I get bored with gambling and go full jackass. Once that happens, I’ll drive to the most expensive strip club there, and guzzle down as much booze as I can with a few lap dances on the side. I would definitely have an unbearable hangover the following morning, but who cares? I had the night of my life.

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