Everything’s changed. All’s different. Nothing’s the same.
Weather’s not like it used to be. Washington’s not like it used to be. Civilization’s not like it used to be. My face is not like it used to be.
In some cases that’s good. I mean, hopping a covered wagon to go out for dinner? I mean, please. Better, takeout. Laundromats for sure beat schlepping to the riverbed and smacking a husband’s dirty loincloths against the rocks. And Native Americans who banged drums to tell a pal they’ll drop by her tepee that night does not cut a cellphone.
Papyrus? It’s now e-mail. The Gutenberg? Now on Kindle.
The Flintstones? They could have a condo — if they could pass the Board. And nobody wants a summer house by the shore of Gitchie Goomie by the shining big sea water without air conditioning.
But too much — with the exception of the Second Avenue Subway — has changed.
Your car? Edsel Ford’s model might’ve been slow, but it actually went. In terms of a brand-new 2013 model, my suggestion is you get two. One to drive while the other’s recalled. The bad news is — not to Detroit. To Tokyo!
Definition of an auto mechanic: the dude who stands behind his work — with a tow truck.
While the slogan is “Buy American,” a practice is to drive foreign. So there are always those high-class superclass, upper-class, expensive foreign sports cars. They may be fast, but they’re low-slung. The problem is most hotshots who can afford them can’t fit into them.
How about expensive? How about the price of clothing? I myself have worn an outfit so long it’s been in style five times.
Nothing is like it was. Our country’s not like what it was. The cost of living in New York has changed. The cost of living in the US has changed. Price of milk is up. Level of service is down. A dude with George Clooney’s hair by day hangs it on a doorknob by night. Biden’s smile flashes more porcelain than the Pottery Barn.
And let’s don’t speak of Dolly Parton’s cleavage, Lisa Rinna’s lips, Lindsay Lohan’s cheeks, Streisand’s nails.
Nowadays a he can be a she. A child has two mommys.
A penny gum machine takes credit cards.
Our whole system has altered. In the fight between Mother Nature and Father Time, the Man in the Moon is laughing at us.
I remember how flying used to be. A flight had more bathrooms than Cuba. And seats roomy enough to accommodate the Biggest Losers behinds. Today only Gwyneth or Calista whatserface fits into them. You need a certificate from Weight Watchers before you board a plane.
Previously flight attendants did just that. Attended the passengers. Now passengers worry about them. Request coffee? They answer: “You tawkin’ t’me?” Need sugar? You risk a lawsuit for insubordination. Want milk? Their union will haul you before HR.
And the only way to be sure your baggage won’t be lost is to travel by bus.
Best way to convert atheists is for the Church to canvass a baggage claim area.
Used to be white-glove service. White gloves? The skirts are so short, you now see their white underwear.
And the stewardii were beautiful. Thanks to age discrimination, sex discrimination, religion discrimination, weight discrimination, race discrimination, your high school principal looks better.
And Lord knows I am not one to knock anyone — Lord knows — but in terms of being pleasant, your parole officer’s friendlier.
Gourmet meals? In 2012, it’s dragging a sandwich onboard and the cutlery’s your finger. En route to Europe, one airline flew low and the crew distributed fishing poles.
Let us talk about your ETA. Be it known airline schedules are very important.
Otherwise, how would we know how late we are?
On one flight came the overhead announcement: “This plane is entirely automatic. Automatic food servers, automatic pilot, automatic landing device. Nothing can go wrong . . . nothing can go wrong . . . nothing can go wrong . . . nothing can go wrong . . .”
With cutbacks and economy measures, the industry’s gone so no-frill that on one 747 the oxygen mask came with a meter.
In the 21st century, cheating is like collecting stamps. An accepted hobby. While the husband looks elsewhere, the wives look away. I have a friend who’s old-school. She doesn’t exactly trust her husband. To make sure that fly hasn’t flown, his new suit has a combination lock on the zipper.
I want things back the old way. Rumble seats. Double-features. Tuxedo’d waiters. Corsets. Doilies. Pennies. I do not want Santa arriving on a skateboard. I do not want Donder and Blitzen traipsing in on a Segway.
I do not — not — want the next hot film to be “Batman 12.” I hate blue nail polish. And shove sun-dried tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, buffalo mozzarella and mesclun lettuce. Just give me a salad . . . hold the anchovies.