29 Years Young

At some time early this morning, March the twenty-first (Pacific Time—I'm in the future), in the year of Our Lord two-thousand ten, I grew one year closer to the big three-O. (Wait, is that the big four-O? Or are they both "the big uh-oh"?) Be that as it may, I don't feel markedly older now than I did during any of the past some-odd birthdays. (Yes, even the even ones.) However, I do feel there is something wrong not just with my birthday but with all birthdays. It's the song. "Happy Birthday." It's outlived its usefulness, and it must be allowed to die.

My proposal is simple. Let's replace "Happy Birthday to You" with something livelier and less kitschy. "And many more, on channel four; and Scooby-Doo, on channel two!"—dumb! Come on, people don't even respect the Happy Birthday song anymore. "You smell like a monkey, and you look like one too!" Really?

Instead, try this one at your next birthday party:

"[Blankety-blank] Years Young"

(sung to the tune of Camptown Races)

## years young to-day, boo yah, boo yah

## years young to-day, oh the boo yah hey!

Winks all around and you come on in, boo yah, boo yah

You go back home with a chocolate grin, oh the boo yah hey!

Ha-vin' fun all night!

Ha-vin' fun all day!

Here's some money in a fold-out card

That, and you don't have to pay.

It's best when sung with gusto, see Foghorn Leghorn.